Like a Hand in a Flame
by flexingrhetoric
Summary: Harry is abused by his Uncle Vernon, until one day Snape arrives unexpectedly at the Dursley house and rescues him. Will Harry recover under the less-than-cordial eye of his surly potions professor? What will happen to him now that he can't go home again? AU. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

The aftermath of Uncle Vernon's wrath always seemed loud to Harry. His pulse pounded loudly in his ears (and throbbed in whatever injuries he'd acquired this time). His breath sounded loud to him, swooshing up through his chest out his mouth. Usually he could keep from crying (after long experience, he knew that Uncle Vernon didn't like him crying), but sometimes even his muffled whimpers sounded loud.

Four weeks after his godfather was killed by the maniac Bellatrix Lestrange, everything changed for Harry. Not all at once, of course, because the aftermath was still loud. He still limped up to his bedroom after the beating, careful not to drip any blood from his wounded back on the floor. He didn't even notice that his right wrist was broken until he tried to turn the doorknob with it, and hissed in pain. Downstairs, he could still hear Uncle Vernon muttering loudly about _magic_ and _that Potter boy_ and _he'd take what he was given and be grateful._

Typical Tuesday.

He could have wished a little more time had gone by since the last beating, because his back was still sore and his ankle hadn't had time to mend enough to let him get away.

It was all a mess. He collapsed on his bed, laying on his stomach to keep the rough, thin blanket away from his bloody back. Any moment, he'd have enough energy to stand up, start treating his wounds with the pilfered first aid supplies. He still had maybe one swallow of pain reliever potion, and fortunately, almost a full vial of murtlap essence. He thought he'd brought home enough for the entire summer, but Uncle Vernon had been in an especially foul mood these last few weeks.

Only a few more weeks and he'd be back to Hogwarts, back to his friends and professors, back to pretending everything was fine at home so that Dumbledore didn't have to worrry his pretty little head about what Harry Potter's life was really like.

_Getting a little bitter there_, Harry thought to himself, and despite everything, he grinned. _Anyway, Vernon is still better than Voldemort_.

With this thought, he pulled himself from his bed and headed over to the small closet, ready to pull the loose floorboard off and start treating the wounds. Before he could even make it there, though, he heard a loud knock on the front door. He paused, then continued in pursuit of his supplies. Guests were nothing to do with him, ever. Usually anyone showing up was one of Dudley's horrible friends, but Dudley and his friends had pretty much been leaving Harry alone this summer.

Harry thought privately that if he were grateful for anything the Dursleys were doing for him this summer, it was that Dudley was too afraid of him to say now to bug him much. In fact, except for Uncle Vernon, he was pretty much left to his own devices. Aunt Petunia still made him do most of the family chores, of course, but Harry didn't mind that. Chores meant he had something to concentrate on other than the burning feeling of loss that stole into his nightmares and occupied his downtime, until he was ready to wish he'd never known Sirius Black existed, and then he felt guilty about that too (in addition to everything else he had to feel guilty about). All in all, the chores were a welcome respite, and Dudley's lack of attention made it easier. _Really_, Harry thought, feeling bitter again_, if I weren't being regularly bashed around by Vernon, it would be almost pleasant_.

"Boy!" Vernon's voice shouted, the large man's footsteps heavy as he came up the stairs.

Harry froze, the loose floorboard half removed. Why would Vernon need him so soon? It hadn't even been half an hour since the man broke his wrist and whipped his back soundly with the belt. Usually even Vernon was willing to give him a little time to heal. Harry dropped the floorboard back into place and spun around just as his door banged open.

"One of your kind is here, boy," Vernon spat. "He's here to check on you. Change your shirt, quick, so he doesn't see any blood. And so help me, if you say a single thing about _anything_, I guarantee that what happened today will happen every single day for the rest of the summer." Vernon's voice was low, but filled with hatred, and Harry was moving before Vernon was even done speaking. He pulled his t-shirt off, wincing as the cloth pulled at the belt welts. Vernon spun around and stomped off. As Harry pulled on a new t-shirt (dark colored, to hide the blood better), he could hear Vernon's tone change to something ingratiating.

Down to the bathroom quickly for a once over. No visible blood. The bruises on his wrist were dark though, and he returned to his room for one of Dudley's old jumpers with sleeves that draped almost to his fingers. Nothing he could do about the slight red on his face from Vernon's slap, but it wasn't too bad.

Trying not to show his limp, Harry headed downstairs. Now that he had a moment to catch his breath, he wondered who on earth would be here to check on him. Sirius Black was gone, and the Order of the Phoenix had made it clear that they wouldn't be back until the end of summer. Maybe it was Ron's dad?

It wasn't Mr. Weasley, though.

Standing awkwardly in the Dursley's living room, looking as out of place among the tea cozies and bright colors as a candle in a torch factory, was a tall man with greasy black hair, black robes, and a horrible expression on his face.

"Professor Snape," Harry said in shock, forgetting for a moment about his limp and moving into the room. "What are you doing here?"

"Mr. Potter," Snape said. "Dumbledore has sent me to check on you." Snape looked Harry up and down, and Harry brushed his right sleeve down self-consciously, trying to keep Snape from seeing anything. But Snape was the same man who'd tried to teach Harry Occlumency this last year, and Harry knew that the man's black eyes saw much more than Harry could wish. Harry dropped his eyes to the floor.

"What does that old crackpot want now?" Vernon sneered. "The boy's fine, as you can see. You can just take yourself off and …"

"Shut up, Dursley," Snape said without even looking at the man, who's face turned several shades of red at being addressed so in his own house. "Mr. Potter, I am supposed to hear from your own mouth that you are fine." His silky voice was disdainful, but that was something Harry was used to.

Harry snuck in a quick glance at Vernon, who was glaring ferociously at him. Harry took three seconds to ponder his options: 1) tell Snape the truth, that he was being beaten on the regular by his uncle, used as a slave by his aunt, and drowning in grief over his dead godfather, or 2) lie about everything, keep everyone happy (but himself, of course, but when had anyone cared about that?), and keep Vernon from enacting his promise to make the rest of the summer even more miserable.

How much pain can one person go through before the anticipation of more pain makes the decision for him?

"I'm fine, professor," Harry said, careful to keep his eyes down and away from Snape's, to keep the greasy git from legilimizing him and discovering anything related to the truth. The words came out more easily than he expected, and it was only inside his own mind that almost hysterical laughter threatened to burst forth, to come spilling out the wounds on his back and wrist and ankle and surround him until he melted into a puddle of pain.

_Pull yourself together_, Harry admonished himself, and he took a deep breath and tried to stand up straighter without a wince.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said. "Look at me."

Harry shook his head. He could feel the hysteria creeping in again, and he worried that if he looked at either of the men in the room now, he would let loose some sort of horrible shriek that would end the charade. Tension rose in the room as Snape waited for his obedience, and Vernon glared so baldly at him that Harry could feel it without even looking. Opposing viewpoints the two men may have had, but at the moment, Harry was terrifed of them both.

"Dursley, get out of the room," Snape said after a few minutes of horrible silence.

"This is my house, you freak," Vernon snapped. "If you want to talk to the boy without me here, you can damn well leave my house and take the little bastard with you."

Harry couldn't help himself; he looked up at Snape for a brief moment, hope swelling behind the hysteria, but Snape's face looked just as dark and horrible, and it was clear that taking Harry with him was about as high on his to-do list as personally decorating the wedding cake for Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour.

Harry dropped his eyes again, fighting against a sudden urge to cry that was as embarrassing as being trapped in his uncle's living room with hidden injuries. He swallowed heavily. He was suddenly exhausted. Perhaps they'd both leave him alone and he could tend to his injuries and get a little sleep before the next horrible thing happened to him.

But the next horrible thing was too soon coming.

Before Harry could do anything about it, Snape stalked forward and grabbed his chin with long fingers, forcing Harry's gaze up to meet his own. Within seconds, Harry felt the strong tug of Snape's mind on his own, rewinding Harry's memories to this morning and seeing each stroke of the belt, the hand caught under Vernon's boot and stomped on until there was a sickening crack. Even the moment in his room where he flopped on the bed in despair. Snape took all the memories from Harry, and then the light touch of his mind was gone, and Harry was left feeling humiliated, emotional, in horrible pain, and so alone.

"You couldn't just leave it," Harry hissed at the potions professor. "I didn't ask you to come here!"

"Go pack your trunk, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his voice as quiet and dangerous as Harry had ever heard him. Harry chanced a glance up at the man, who was glaring at him even more angrily than Vernon.

"I'm not leaving," Harry said, trying not to yell. Yes, for that brief moment he'd wanted Snape to take him away, but now that he was being ordered to leave, Harry's oppositional side kicked in. Besides, better to deal with Vernon's anger that was a known quantity, then to have to face whatever Snape was going to throw at him. At least with Vernon, he knew where he stood.

"You don't have a choice, Mr. Potter," Snape snapped. "If you don't go pack, I'll do it using magic, which will be blamed on you, and you'll face expulsion from Hogwarts. Do you really want to get in trouble with the Ministry right now?"

Harry didn't, but he set his jaw stubbornly and planted his feet more squarely.

"Mr. Potter! You will obey me immediately."

"That's right, boy," Vernon said, joining in where he wasn't wanted as usual. "You can leave with this man and never return."

A fog of blackness began to swirl around inside Harry's mind, made of pain and anger and despair and a strong desire to throw something or hit someone, and it didn't help that the two people who hated him most in the world (other than Voldemort, he guessed, although he wasn't even sure about that) both stood within arm's reach of him and he couldn't get away.

"Very well, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his tone resigned rather than angry. "You leave me no choice. Stay right here for a moment."

And with that, Snape disappeared up the stairs before Harry could stop him. Vernon took one more step closer to Harry, grabbing the boy's broken right wrist in a tight clasp that had Harry gasping in pain.

"If you tell him anything," Vernon whispered, his anger pooling out of his mouth and into Harry's ears, becoming part of the angry fog and chilling Harry to his bone. "If you say a single word about anything that's gone on here, I will find my way to you, no matter where you are, and destroy everything you've ever loved, piece by piece. Friends, belongings, nothing will be safe from me. You are nothing, freak, and you'll be nothing with this madman just like you are here at home. You think you matter to him? I can see in his eyes that he hates you as much as I do. You think you matter to that old crackpot Doobledorf? Who do you think makes you come back every summer? You are nothing, boy."

Harry couldn't say anything through the haze of pain emanating from his wrist. He couldn't even pull himself away. The words washed over him, seeping into every quiet place in his mind and heart, stretching down through the veins under his skin until he imagined them tattooed from toes to hairline, and he closed his eyes.

A loud thunk caught Vernon's attention, making the man drop Harry's wrist abruptly. Then another thunk, and another. Snape came into view, pulling Harry's trunk down the staircase, _thunk thunk thunk_, until the potions professor was back in the living room with them.

"You are leaving with me, Mr. Potter. Do you wish to have time to say goodbye to anyone?" The professor's voice was a sneer.

"No, professor," Harry said, his voice low as he tried to mask the pain.

"Then come along."

Snape didn't give a backward glance to make sure Harry was following him, so Harry hurried. As he crossed the threshhold of the doorway into the Dursley's home, he turned his head to see his uncle staring at him. For a moment, he imagined he saw a burst of fear in his uncle's eyes, and then he was out the door and gone.

"We will need to get outside of the wards before we apparate, Potter," Snape said. "Follow me."

Snape walked fast, and Harry limped after him as quickly as he could. Now that he was actually leaving the Dursleys, he began to feel some of the weight lift off his shoulders. Perhaps this would be okay, being away from his uncle.

But with Snape?

And the weight returned, reminding him that until school started again, he was a nobody and nobody wanted him.

"This is far enough. Grab my left arm, Potter, and hold on tight," Snape said, offering the arm to Harry. Harry hurried to obey, hiding the wince as he wrapped his hands around Snape's robed arm. "Brace yourself."

With that, Snape turned sharply, taking Harry with him in a haze of color and confusion. Number 4, Privet Drive, disappeared.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I do not own Harry Potter. I should be so lucky.**

Severus Snape typically spent very little of his summer pondering his Hogwarts students. Sure, they crossed his mind sometimes, like if he had one of his potions go wrong and end up looking like the digested end of a bland dinner. Or when attending Order of the Phoenix meetings and being surrounded by redheaded people whose names were basically interchangeable but who all reminded him of that Weasley monster who wandered in the wake of Potter's disaster of a son.

When you're a potions master who spent the summer stocking up on the basic supplies an enchanted castle needed to get through a school year with an endless supply of injured children, and on top of that you were part of the good guys _and_ the bad guys in almost equal measure, there wasn't a lot of extra time for thinking.

That was the way he preferred it anyway. Nine months with the little hoodlums was plenty, thank you very much, and he spent the entire school year looking forward to the three months of peace away at Prince Manor, alone in his basement potions lab, not having to grade mediocre (or worse) drivel about the subject he loved, not having to hover over incompetent teenagers messing with ingredients way above their skill level.

But even Severus Snape couldn't help thinking about a student when Albus Dumbledore Flooed right into his living room one night and suggested (_suggested, ha!)_ that he check in on Harry Potter, from whom apparently no one had heard in more than a week.

"Are you serious?" Snape had asked, his voice dry and low.

"Quite, my boy," Dumbledore had said. "Harry's situation with his relatives has always been tense, and I'm concerned that they aren't allowing him access to his owl. Someone must check."

Snape had sneered. "Then send the wolf. Or one of the Weasleys. I'm busy."

Dumbledore had given him one of those twinkling grins, the old man's eyes steady on him. "I realize that, Severus, but I'm afraid I specifically want it to be you, for two reasons. First, I must send someone whom I both trust and respect to see the situation for what it is. Second, it is likely, as I said, that Harry is just not able to use his owl but is otherwise fine, and it isn't time for him to leave Privet Drive just yet. If you are the one to check on him, he won't be expecting to leave with you and thus won't be disappointed."

"Damn right," Snape had muttered under his breath, and Dumbledore's grin widened. "The Golden Boy is probably too busy being pampered by his bothersome relatives to remember that people are waiting to hear from him."

Dumbledore's grin slid off his face in a sad reverse smile. "I'm afraid you're wrong there, Severus, but we have always disagreed about the boy is spoiled or not. Now, will you go?"

"I will spend five minutes there, no more," Snape had said. "I'm busy, old man."

"I know. That's all I'm asking for." And with that, Dumbledore had disappeared into the fireplace again, leaving Snape muttering angrily under his breath about _that Potter brat_ and _can't tell me what to do, old man_ and _four minutes, tops_.

But when Snape had actually been standing in front of the clearly-injured teenage boy and discovered first hand exactly how pampered the boy was by his guardians, it had taken only a second to decide to get the boy out of Privet Drive.

For one thing, Potter was too scrawny, even through the baggy clothes he was wearing (clearly designed to cover up something; Snape knew those tricks). The boy was underfed, and since Snape hadn't remembered seeing any signs of an eating disorder, or even a diminished appetite, in the boy at school, he suspected immediately he was being deprived of food. Then there had been the limp, evident in uneven footsteps before he'd even seen the boy come around the corner into the Dursley's living room. The telltale signs of fear as the boy had inched around his uncle.

The refusal to look Snape in the eye, although Snape could have put that one down to usual Potter stubbornness.

All of this processed for Snape before the boy had spoken a single word. The decision to pull Potter out of this home was made in Snape's head even before he had legilimized the teenager, pulling the last few hours of Potter's day forcefully from his mind. Watching the boy's memories, and particular the look of hatred on Dursley's face as he battered his nephew, struck Snape through the heart. For a brief second, he was pulled into his own childhood, and he suspected something had changed forever in how he felt about this young man. (_Time to think about that later.)_ Disdain he may have felt for the Potter brat, dislike even, but no child should be left in a situation with an uncle willing to do such things. Snape was hard, but he wasn't a monster.

Snape had seen it all before, of course, although not usually in the context of the abuser's living room. Usually it was at school in the fall, when students were returning from less-than-ideal home situations back to the loving-but-chaotic environment that was Hogwarts. Particularly in the first-years, Snape spent a fair amount of time at the beginning of each year gently legilimizing students to find out if the bruises on their skin really had come from tree climbing accidents as they inevitably claimed.

He had never noticed bruises on Potter before. Perhaps that idiot uncle of his had enough sense to keep his hands off the boy for the last couple of weeks before term started each year, so the bruises could heal. Or perhaps the brat was hiding the bruises himself with cream or a glamour spell or something. Regardless, the boy hadn't acted in a way that had caused Snape any suspicion in the past.

A small voice in the back of his head wondered mildly if he had never noticed because he was too busy thinking about how much the boy reminded him of his dunderhead father.

But now here they were, Snape and Harry Potter, apparating to the outskirts of Cokeworth Mills. Almost before their feet touched ground, the boy dropped to his knees and retched. Snape felt a brief glimpse of something he recognized as sympathy (the first time apparating was never pleasant), but then pure annoyance took its place. Later, he would analyze his new feelings towards the boy. Later, he could ponder the ramifications of Potter's growing up years, and what it meant for the future (for both him and the boy). For now, it was easier to settle back to the antagonistic relationship they had always had.

"Whenever you're done emptying out your precious stomach, Potter," Snape snarled. The boy's face reddened, and he dragged himself back to his feet. Snape felt guilty for just a moment as he realized the boy hadn't actually emptied out anything; nothing had come up. He didn't know if that was because the boy controlled himself, or if there was genuinely nothing in his stomach to come up.

More questions for later.

"We must walk the rest of the way," Snape said. "Do you require assistance?"

Potter's ears turned red, and he shook his head vehemently. _So we're both ignoring your obvious limp_, Snape thought to himself, but he didn't mind letting the boy have his pride, especially if it meant he didn't have to touch him any sooner than necessary. Once they reached Prince Manor, he could heal the boy's injuries.

"Where are we, sir?" Potter asked. "I thought we'd be going to Grimmauld Place or Hogwarts."

"You thought wrong, as usual," Snape said. He didn't answer Potter's question, but, at the boy's desperate questioning glance, Snape relented. "We may grace Grimmauld Place with your presence at a later point. Right now we are coming to my own home, Prince Manor."

Potter didn't ask any more questions. He simply limped alongside Snape, moving at a fast trot to keep up with the potion's professor. Snape noticed the boy's hustle, and also the ashen cast to the boy's face, which was getting whiter and whiter with each passing moment. Potter was clearly in pain. Snape slowed his pace a little, allowing the boy to catch up.

It took about fifteen minutes for the two of them to walk (limp) their way from the apparating point in Cokeworth Mills to the outside boundary of Prince Manor. The name, like the family from which Snape came, was pretentious; it was called a manor, but really it was nothing more than a large cottage, three stories tall and nestled into a deep overgrowth of trees that spread out over the several acres on which the place sat. The protective wards Snape had himself placed around the property didn't allow apparating into or out of the property, so it was on foot that he and his childhood enemy's son made their way through the trees on a almost-invisible trail. Potter looked around in wonder, his face for a moment free of the pain, and Snape could tell the boy was bursting with questions.

In the end, the boy asked only one before they reached the front door, and it was the question Snape had first expected.

"How was it that you came to get me, sir?" The teenager didn't emphasis the _you_, but he might as well have. Snape hid a grin.

"Dumbledore sent me," he said simply.

This statement did not clear up the boy's confusion, but Snape didn't mind that at all. He was used to facing a confused Harry Potter, in class, in school, and in life.

Snape waved his wand to undo the locks on the front door and led the boy inside. It was dark-ish, as he hadn't opened the curtains for the day yet, and the setting sun outside did little to dispel the gloom. He wondered what the boy thought, seeing his professor's home for the first time. But that was irrelevant. On to more pressing matters.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said, waiting for a moment as the boy stopped looking around and turned his full attention on the professor. Snape noticed that Potter didn't meet his eyes, perhaps concerned about being legilimized against his will again.

"Yes, sir?" the boy said finally.

"For tonight, you will stay here, at my home. While you are here, you are to be obedient at all times. I will not have any miscreant youth destroying my home. Is this understood?"

Potter's face screwed up in some sort of defiant look, but the boy nodded, still keeping his eyes down.

"Now, we will begin with healing your injuries, and then dinner. Then you will get some sleep."

Again, Potter nodded. Snape watched the boy take a ragged breath, pain tormenting his features once more.

That brief glimpse of sympathy overtook Snape once more. He remembered what it felt like, the shame and pain from childhood abuse; knew how embarrassed he would have been, had anyone discovered what was going on and tried to help. Now was not the time to cottle the boy; it would only humiliate him further. Snape knew he needed to draw on that stubborn Gryffindor courage instead.

"Come along, Mr. Potter." And Snape led him upstairs to the guest room, noting that the closer they got, the slower the boy walked. He knew what was coming would be unpleasant for the boy, both revealing the extent of the injuries and the healing itself. Potter clearly understood this as well.

"Potter," Snape said, stopping just outside the door to the guest room. The boy looked reluctantly up at him (avoiding his gaze, though, Snape noticed). "Harry," Snape said, his voice softer. "I will help, if I can. You aren't alone anymore."

The teenager nodded, squaring his shoulders. Snape gave him a moment to see if the boy would respond any more, but Potter didn't. With a deep sigh, Snape led the way into the guest room.

**A/N: Next up, healing the current injuries and some fun Snape/Harry stuff. Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I don't own these characters; I just enjoy the sandbox. Thank you for reading!**

Chapter Three:

Everything was upside down. Or sideways. Or both. Harry couldn't tell which direction was up. His mind swirled with fear and pain and guilt and some other emotion he couldn't identify yet, and it was all pear-shaped.

Looking around Snape's house had helped for a few minutes. The house was fascinating, even half-lit with the diminishing sunlight coming in through curtained windows. Bookshelves were everywhere, on every wall he'd seen so far (although admittedly, the only rooms he'd seen so far were some sort of parlor and a hallway). Even the staircase wall had been filled with bookshelves, and every bookshelf was full to bursting with books.

Hermione would have loved it.

Harry thought even he would probably love to explore the thousands of volumes, but the pain in his wrist and back and ankle was taking over his mind, and he barely heard Snape's voice as the main directed him upstairs into the guest room. The closer they got to the guest room, though, the more Harry's mind came into focus, and the more he realized what was about to happen.

Snape. Healing his injuries. _Snape_. As in, the potions professor who had literally mocked him mercilessly for the last five years. Who had never looked on him with anything but disdain. Seeing Harry in a vulnerable state, covered in wounds.

The same Snape, Harry reminded himself, who showed up in his uncle's house not an hour ago and pulled Harry out of the situation immediately on realizing he was injured.

_But only at Dumbledore's request. _Snape didn't care about Harry, probably would have left him there with his uncle if Dumbledore wouldn't have been upset. He was only healing Harry now to get him to sleep, so that Harry could leave in the morning and Snape would never have to see him again.

The more he thought about it, the more Harry realized that extra emotion he hadn't immediately recognized was anger.

Anger at his uncle, of course, but that anger was always there. Anger at Sirius Black, for failing Harry once again (_he died, it's not his fault, Harry_, a logical voice tried to remind him, and he immediately shut it up). Anger at Dumbledore, who couldn't be bothered to come himself to check on Harry, or at least send someone who actually _liked_ him. Anger at himself, for allowing his uncle to treat him this way. Sure, when he'd been five and eight and ten, his uncle was so much bigger than he was that Harry had had no choice. But he was almost a fully-qualified wizard who still allowed his uncle to beat on him. _Some savior of the wizarding world I am_, Harry thought bitterly.

Most of all, though, he felt anger at Snape. A rational part of him recognized that at least part of the anger was humiliation, that this man who hated him had seen the worst of Harry's life and was probably going to demand to know more. But the rational side of Harry was quickly swallowed up in one basic question that had Harry's skin prickling with anger: _Why didn't he come sooner?_

Taking a deep breath, Harry realized they were already standing outside the guest room. Snape was watching him, his dark eyes narrowed.

"Potter."

Harry looked reluctantly up at him, carefully keeping their eyes from meeting so that Snape couldn't see the level of anger Harry was feeling. He didn't need to humiliate himself anymore than was already happening.

To his surprise, Snape said, "_Harry_. I will help, if I can. You aren't alone anymore." The words were gentle, nothing like he'd ever heard from his surly potions professor.

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor again. Now he could add guilt to the level of anger he was directing at Snape, because he suspected the man was trying to be helpful, but all Harry could feel was fury: restless, flame-red fury. He gave a short nod to acknowledge the words, not trusting himself to speak. Then he followed the black-robed man into the guest room.

It was the nicest room he'd ever been in. A four-poster bed stood against one wall, draped in dark blue blankets and gauzy curtains. More bookshelves filled with books outlined a window that faced the sunset, with two black squishy armchairs diaganolly facing each other underneath it. A rug that matched the bedding stretched towards the corners, and a door across the room from the entry one led into what Harry suspected was a bathroom.

"Wow," he said under his breath, unable to help himself. Was this really where Snape expected him to sleep tonight? It was four times the size of the small bedroom Harry had been occupying at the Dursley's. Could this really be a guest room?

But no, Harry thought, perhaps this is just where Snape would go about healing him, and then Harry would be off to whatever dungeon Snape kept, cold and tired as always. The thought made it easier for Harry to stand up straight. Deprivation he was used to. He could get through that.

Snape moved in a flurry of activity around him. The professor Transfigured one of the chairs into a low stool, swishing it with a flick of his wand into the center of the room. Two objects that looked like Muggle lamps, but had some sort of flickering fire at their center, zoomed over to either side of the chair. Finally a small table, which Snape magicked out of thin air, settled by the stool.

"Where exactly are you hurt?" Snape asked, turning to face Harry with the furniture complete. "And be warned I will not tolerate lies, Mr. Potter."

Harry had been caught off guard by the preparations and probably would have been honest, had Snape not tacked on that last sentence. But Harry didn't like not being trusted, and it made him feel defiant, even had the anger he'd been struggling with diminished (it hadn't).

"Why do you care?" he muttered, keeping his face down.

He wasn't sure how Snape would react to his angry words. Decide not to heal him after all? Call Dumbledore in instead? Yell at Harry some more? Instead, Harry felt an odd magical crawling feeling. He snapped his head up in time to see Snape finish waving his wand at the teenager. Some sort of diagnostic spell, then. A small piece of parchment burst into appearance by Snape's hand, and the professor read it over quickly. Harry was relieved to see that the parchment could only hold a few lines. Apparently the diagnostic had been bare-minimum. Snape wouldn't see the previous injuries, wouldn't see that today's beating was just the latest in a pattern that stretched back years.

Harry didn't want to deal with a Snape who knew all his dark secrets. The most recent dark secret was bad enough.

"We will be dealing with your attitude at a later point, Potter, but I will tend to your medical needs first. Sit down." Snape gestured to the chair.

Anger swelled up in Harry again, blinding him to everything but the dark-robed man in front of him, who was so casual about the matter, oblivious to how humiliating the situation might be to Harry. "Why are you doing this, professor?"

"You're injured. I possess the skills to help you. Now sit down."

"No."

Snape froze, looking at Harry. "No?" he repeated.

"No, _sir_," Harry said sarcastically.

"Potter!" Snape snapped. "You will obey me."

"Isn't Professor Dumbledore or Madam Pomfrey available?" Or literally anyone else? Lupin? Mrs. Weasley?

"Dumbledore is not available. I could, of course, call in Madam Pomfrey, if you'd like. I'm sure you won't mind at all that she is mandated to report all instances of child abuse to the Ministry of Magic. I'm certain you would enjoy the fallout of having the ministry know exactly what was going on at the Dursley residence." Snape's sarcasm was heavy.

"Then one of the Order members," Harry said desparately.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "_I am_ a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Potter. Now stop this stupidity and sit down."

"I'll do it myself, then. I've done it before," Harry said. The moment the words left his mouth, he could have strangled himself. What had he been thinking? How could he give away the fact that this had happened before? As far as Snape knew, this morning was the only time, and now Harry had given him more fodder for humiliation, more information that would be used against him. Harry felt his heartrate increasing, and panic began to slide into the edges of the anger and pain.

He screwed his eyes shut, but he could feel when Snape came to stand right in front of him. The professor stayed silent, silent, until the panic was beginning to well out of Harry's fingernails and toenails and the ends of his hair. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to hold himself together, trying to control his rapid breathing.

"Potter, calm down." The professor's voice was low and oddly gentle, like he was talking to a wild animal about to run. Harry opened his eyes in time to see the professor's long fingers come out of the haze surrounding Harry, lifting the teenager's chin until Harry was forced to meet his eyes. Snape's eyes were dark, as always, and annoyed, as usual when looking at Harry, but something else was there as well, something Harry didn't recognize.

"Please, sir," Harry whispered. He didn't even know what he was pleading for.

"Take a deep breath before you pass out."

Passing out in front of Snape … Harry thought he couldn't have reached a point where he'd feel more vulnerable in front of his enemies, but flopping to the floor in front of Snape in an unconscious heap would probably do it. He took a deep breath, then another, and the panic started to recede.

"We will discuss … previous healing attempts … at a later time. For right now, you will sit down and let me take a look at you." Snape's voice was still low, still gentle, but the usual hard edge was back, and Harry was almost relieved. He couldn't handle one more thing changing in his world that had collapsed this day.

Hanging his head, Harry obeyed.

"I'll be back momentarily. Remove your jumper and shirt, Potter."

There really was no hope for it. Harry knew that Snape could stand him on his head and remove his clothing without more than a wave of his wand, and he suspected he'd pushed Snape's patience beyond the limit at this point anyway. So, after making sure Snape was really out of the room, he struggled out of the oversized jumper and t-shirt. Dried blood from the new scabs on his back stuck to the t-shirt, making the entire experience a haze of pain that was, sadly, more familiar and comfortable to Harry than the previous few minutes of Snape's strange almost-gentleness. Pain, Harry could deal with.

He sat, trying not to think about cold air on his bare torso, about whatever Snape was about to do. He tried not to think of the future, or the past, or anything in this bizarre present he found himself in. It was easier to think of nothing, really, and Harry almost laughed to himself. Perhaps he'd found the way to clear his mind after all, after all those months of failing to do so in Occlumency lessons. All you had to do to clear Harry Potter's mind was whip him with a belt, break his arm, and then introduce one potions professor who had the power to make his life a living hell.

Who was Harry kidding? _This _was a living hell.

Snape returned shortly, carrying a tray with several vials, clean cloths, and a bowl of water. He set the items on the table by Harry, then paused. Harry could feel Snape's eyes on his back, taking in the depth of the damage to his skin. But the professor didn't say a word (_thank Merlin for one small favor_, Harry thought). The man handed Harry a small vial.

"Drink."

Harry took the vial and turned it around this way and that, trying to recognize the contents.

"If I were trying to off you, I would have left you with Dursley," Snape said impatiently. "It's a pain potion, Potter. Just drink it."

Harry obeyed.

"What hurts the most, Mr. Potter," Snape asked, all gentleness gone and back to his normal surly tone.

"My wrist," Harry whispered, closing his eyes. A moment later, he felt Snape's hands take up his right arm, and he shuddered against the sudden touch. It had been weeks since anyone had touched him in a way that wasn't violent and painful. But Snape's fingers were gentle as they rotated his arm left and right, and when he relented Harry's arm back to his side, Harry felt a moment of something that might have been disappointment rather than relief.

"Drink this, Potter," Snape said, handing Harry another vial. This one was labeled, Skele-gro. Harry groaned, remembering exactly how fun this particular potion was. At the dark look on Snape's face, though, he decided not to argue and downed the potion obediently.

Next, Snape moved to Harry's back. Harry flinched as the man's hand touched his bare shoulder, then closed his eyes, not wanting to feel anything that was about to happen. While the pain potion had taken the edge off most of his pain, he knew cleaning out the welts and abrasions left by his uncle's belt was likely to be unpleasant.

It was. Unpleasant, that is.

Snape didn't say a word as he worked, and if Harry had been in any state of mind that could process logical thought, Harry would have realized that the potions professor was working both gently and efficiently. But no logical thoughts penetrated the haze of pain and fear and _pain_ that came as the professor washed and treated the wounds. It wasn't until Snape was spreading some sort of goopy ointment on him that Harry drew in a ragged breath and opened his eyes. The ointment was cool, and a tingly feeling spread from his skin where Snape applied it deep into his back and sides. He shivered a little, but not with cold so much as relief.

"Just your ankle remaining, Potter. Then you can get some rest."

Then, to Harry's extreme embarrassment, the potions professor was kneeling in front of him, pulling Harry's battered sneaker off his left ankle and began twisting the foot this way and that.

"It's not broken. Just twisted." With that, Snape waved his wand over Harry, there was a burst of pain that quickly faded, and his ankle was as good as new.

Harry knew he should say something, knew that the polite thing to do was to thank the man for healing his wounds. Harry had never in his life had an adult heal wounds (other than Mrs. Pomfrey and the incompetent Professor Lockhart), and certainly never one that knew about his abusive uncle. Thank you was the right thing to say.

He'd never said thank you to Snape before. He wasn't sure if the words were possible.

"Sir," he started.

Snape didn't wait for him to talk, though. Instead, he shoved one more vial into Harry's hand and began cleaning up the medical supplies. This time, Harry didn't even ask what was in it, just lifted the bottle to his lips and drank it down.

"Time for bed, Mr. Potter," Snape said. "You will need to lie on your stomach until the ointment sinks in, perhaps fifteen minutes."

Startled by the business-like tone of Snape's voice after all the gentle treatment, Harry shook his head.

"I don't feel tired, sir," he said.

Snape stopped packing away vials for a moment and smirked at Harry. "Don't be stupid, Potter. Of course you feel tired."

_No, I don't_, Harry thought to himself. Halfway through the thought, exhaustion hit him sharply and deeply. His eyelids became heavy, and his limbs weighed more than they had only moments ago. It happened so suddenly that Harry's eyes dropped to the vial in his hand. It wasn't labeled, but he knew now that he'd drunk a sleeping potion. He turned a glare on Snape.

"Go to bed, Potter," Snape said, the smirk still playing with the corners of his lips.

"But—" Harry started, but he was stumbling forward before he could formulate a protest. His only goal now was to lay down on the bed before he fell over.

He made it.

Barely.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Leave a review, if you're so inclined. **


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four –

Severus Snape needed a drink.

The boy was in bed, his wounds healed (or healing, under the direction of the Skele-gro). He hadn't stayed awake long enough even to pull off his other shoe. For a brief moment, Snape had considered pulling it off for the boy, tucking him into bed like the teenager was a child. Then the boy had made an involuntary movement in his sleep, brushing his hair aside with one hand, and he had reminded Snape of James Potter so strongly that he turned away from the boy with a sneer.

Let Potter pull his own damn shoes off. Hadn't Snape done enough today?

The answer was yes, he had done enough. It was time to call in Dumbledore, to let Lupin and the Weasleys know where the brat was, to make preparations to get him out of Prince Manor as fast as humanly possible. Snape had used up his quota of human kindness, possibly for the year. Besides, he still needed to deal with Dursley. He'd been in too much of a hurry to get Potter out of the house earlier to deal with the rotund bully, but now he had a little more time.

He left the guest room, leaving the boy snoring on his stomach, laying on top of the bed in his over-large jeans and single shoe. Down the stairs again, heading to his own study, where he could both get a drink and start Floo calling everyone he needed to.

But he was only halfway down the stairs when Potter's words unwittingly came to mind. "_I'll do it myself then, I've done it before._"

Of course Potter had done it before, treated his own wounds. Because what Snape had seen in the boy's mind may only have been the events of today, but it was clear from the way the boy reacted (both in the memory and while standing in the living room with his uncle and professor) that Potter was familiar with the treatment. And Snape had seen for himself that the current welts on his back were layered on top of old ones, half healed and clearly from more than one occasion.

How was it that no one had known? Surely Dumbledore wouldn't have left Potter in a home with people who were beating him, no matter the blood wards. Being safe from Voldemort wasn't worth much if you're being attacked by your own relatives. And other members of the Order had been in Harry's house, not to mention that house elf from years ago. How had no one ever noticed?

Even if the Order hadn't noticed, why had Potter never told a friend? Perhaps he had, and those dunderhead friends of his didn't think it important enough to report to someone.

Snape shook his head. He was eternally unimpressed with that Weasley brat, but surely the insufferable Granger girl would have reported it had her best friend been abused.

No, the more logical explanation was that no one knew. Potter had never told anyone, had kept the injuries hidden, had lied through his teeth about what his childhood (and his summers) were like. And with this realization, Snape poured himself a tall glass of firewhiskey.

Because what Potter was doing … was exactly what Snape himself had done, twenty years before. Hiding the injuries behind baggy clothes and mediocre first aid supplies (although the more Snape had learned about potions, the less mediocre his supplies became), lying to people who asked him how he was doing, how his summer was, what he did on holidays. Keeping everyone away, and especially any adults.

Everyone but Lily.

He closed his eyes in pain. Lily had known, had supported him, even helping him clean up once after a particularly bad day at Spinner's End. Lily, who had argued over and over again with him to tell someone, to get help. Lily, whose trust and love he had lost in a moment of fury as a stupid teenager.

Now her son, the only part of her that remained, lay in a bed upstairs in Snape's own house. And Snape knew, without having to make the conscious decision, that he would not just turn the boy over to Dumbledore and the others. That he wanted to help, in whatever way he could. Whatever way the boy would accept.

With that, Snape Floo-called Albus Dumbledore.

The great man came through the fireplace within ten minutes, his long white beard catching on a hook above the mantel and making Snape snicker as Dumbledore detangled himself.

Finally, the old man was free and clear of the hooks, and turned his smiling face on Snape. "Well, Severus? How is Harry?"

"Upstairs," Snape said shortly. The twinkling look in Dumbledore's blue eyes disappeared for a moment.

"Please explain." While Dumbledore's words were calm, Snape could detect the undercurrent of both urgency and anger. Dumbledore may have been doddering, but he was certainly not a fool. He would know that if Harry were no longer with the Dursleys, Snape would have a good reason.

So Snape explained, going into a fair amount of detail as he described what he'd found at the house, and what Potter had admitted to as Snape healed him.

"This has happened _before_?" Dumbledore said in shock.

"My guess is many times, possibly for most of the boy's life. I haven't yet questioned him to know the full extent," Snape said.

Dumbledore sunk into a chair across from Snape's desk in the study. "I knew he was … unhappy with his relatives, but I had no idea…"

Snape felt a moment of compassion for the old man, whose face was getting lost in the guilt he clearly felt. "You couldn't have known, Albus."

Dumbledore gave him a sharp look. "Do not placate me, Severus. Of course I could have known. _Should _have known. I could have checked in on him, could have sent someone earlier." His voice trailed off, then he gave himself a little shake and turned a beaming smile on Snape again. "But you have gotten him out, my boy. Thank you."

"I don't think Potter is as grateful as you are that I know what's been happening to him," Snape said sardonically.

"Of course not. But he will be, eventually. Now, to consider what to do next. He clearly can't go back to the Dursleys house this summer, possibly ever. Nor is Grimmauld Place an option anymore, not with Sirius gone. The Burrow?"

Snape knew that Dumbledore was thinking aloud now, not really expecting a response. Thus, Snape's answer was as much as surprise to Dumbledore as it was to Snape: "He will stay here for the summer."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows high into his wrinkled foreheard. "Stay here? With you? You cannot possibly be serious, Severus."

"I am quite serious, Albus."

"Um, I don't mean to be insensitve, my boy, but this is _Harry Potter_ you are referring to. The boy you have complained about nonstop for the last five years. I would not subject you to the boy's company for two full months." Dumbledore left unspoken that he wouldn't want Potter subject to Snape's company either, but both men knew that was part of it as well.

"Believe me, I have no great enthusiasm for his company," Snape said, speaking slowly as he sorted out his thoughts. "But I saw what they did to him, Albus, and I refuse … I … I can't explain it."

Dumbledore nodded in kind understanding immediately, of course. Snape had never discussed his own abusive father with Dumbledore, but naturally the man knew all about it anyway. Snape could see the thoughts whipping across the man's eyes, probably setting a plan in place that extended out for years.

"I will probably regret it," Snape said.

"Yes. Perhaps we will have a backup plan in place. But the idea has merit; here the boy won't be coddled, but he'll be with someone who understands. Perhaps you can get him to talk about what happened, so that he can begin to deal with it," Dumbledore said.

Snape winced. He was already regretting his spontaneous decision to keep the boy. Getting him to talk would require a different kind of communication from what Snape preferred, and more infernally, _emotions_. It would be torture, for both him and the boy.

But it was Lily's son, and he would do for the boy what no one had done for him.

"I will … try," he said.

"Very well, then." Dumbledore stood up. "All that's left to do is deal with Vernon Dursley."

The look in Dumbledore's eyes reminded Snape that this was the only man that the most evil wizard of all time feared. He shivered. He wouldn't trade places with Vernon Dursley for love nor money.

The old man went on. "We could call in the Aurors, or even the muggle police, but young Mr. Potter would probably prefer to keep the situation from getting into the courts system, either magical or muggle."

"To protect his privacy," Snape agreed, seeing where this was going.

"It will be best to deal with this ourselves. I'm assuming you'd like to join me." Dumbledore said.

Snape wouldn't miss this for the world. "It would be a pleasure, headmaster."

"Shall we need to leave someone to tend Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

"I gave him a fairly powerful sleeping potion. He will be fine for a few hours." Snape stood, his jaw clenched.

"Then come, my boy. Let us right a wrong. We are years late, I'm afraid, but …"

"Better late than never?" Snape supplied.

"Precisely."

With that, the two men headed to the fireplace. A Floo and an apparation later, they were standing in front of Number 4 Privet Drive. The lights in the house were dark, but a muggle vehicle stood in the driveway. The Dursleys were likely home.

Snape could hear Dumbledore casting two or three spells under his breath as they approached the house. He felt as they slid through some sort of magical barrier, almost like walking through a stationary waterfall, and then they were in front of the door.

"Severus," Dumbledore said, reaching out to grab the potions professor's arm. "I am going to count on you to be the voice of reason here."

Snape pursed his lips in shock. "Albus?" Was the old man losing his mind? When was Snape ever the voice of reason when it came to Harry Potter?

"I find I feel … significantly angry. I trust you to step in if necessary."

"Yes, sir," Snape said. What else could he say?

With that, Dumbledore waved his wand and the front door unlocked. Dumbledore was through the door with his wand waving angrily before Snape took a single step. The living room was empty of Vernon Dursley, but a woman Snape recognized sat on the couch, reading a gossip magazine. Petunia.

Lily's voice echoed in Snape's ears, telling him about her sister who hated the magic. Blood rushed in Snape's ears, and he lifted his own wand.

But he was too late. Dumbledore was already creating some sort of complicated spell that had Petunia screaming and running from the room. Seconds later, the massive form of Vernon Dursley came thundering down the stairs.

"What in hell's name is going on down here?" the man demanded, but came screeching to a halt when he came face to face with the two wizards. "You!" he said, pointing a bulbous finger at Snape. For the moment, he was ignoring Dumbledore, a move that Snape thought wouldn't lead to a long and prosperous life.

"Dursley," Snape said, his tone silky.

"You came for the boy. But you left, everything was fine. Did that boy say something to you?"

"He didn't have to," Snape said. "You're going to tell me everything." Snape wasn't sure what Dumbledore was doing at his side, although he could see the man's wand waving in his peripheral vision. But Snape concentrated on Dursley, and specifically, the man's beady eyes. It took only a moment for Snape to legilimize the man, pulling the memories from today from his odious mind, but then reviewing previous years of abuse.

_Potter, standing in front of Dursley earlier today, wincing as the man gripped his broken arm and threatened his friends and belongings._

_Potter as a younger teenager, sporting a hand-shaped bruise across his face as he raced up the stairs ahead of his uncle, who was pulling the belt from his pants as he moved._

_Potter as a child, looking up from the broken remains of a glass bowl he'd clearly just dropped on the kitchen floor, his eyes seeking out his uncle's in fear. The bruises the boy gained on his arm as his uncle dragged him out back to the lawn shed, the switch, already hanging on the wall, that left deeper welts even than the belt._

_Potter as a young boy, barely not a toddler, crying as his uncle shoved him roughly into a cupboard under the staircase, blood streaming from the boy's nose._

"Vernon Dursley," Dumbledore said in a low voice, pulling Snape from the man's mind. Snape had to blink a few times to clear his thoughts.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" Dursley demanded, but his voice was less assured, and the beginnings of fear were descending. At that moment, Petunia returned from whatever hiding place she thought she'd found. She cowered behind her large husband.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," Dumbledore said, his voice still low and dangerous. "It was under my direction that Harry Potter came to live with you. I had hoped that he would thrive with his only living relatives."

The headmaster seemed to grow larger as he spoke, and the room darkened, until Dumbledore himself seemed as large the ceiling and the only point in the room that had any light. His eyes flashed with anger, and both Dursley and Petunia shrunk back, their eyes unable to leave Dumbledore's face.

"Instead of showing him the love any child deserves, you have beaten him, abused him, neglected his needs, and destroyed his childhood."

"We never wanted him," Vernon tried to say, but Dumbledore raised his wand and the man shut up with a squeak. Dursley and Petunia continued to shrink back, and Snape realized that they weren't just cowering in fear, they were _actually getting smaller_. While Dumbledore had grown, the two of them shrunk until they were the size of large mice.

"You have ruined his entire childhood. Now you will spend some time contemplating your actions," Dumbledore said, his voice more tired now than angry.

"Put us back to size, you … you—" Dursley started, but his voice trailed off when he realized that what was coming out of his mouth was not his regular booming tones, but the timid squeaks of a rodent who'd learned English. His hand covered his mouth.

Snape resisted the urge to laugh. Or step on the man.

Dumbledore waved his wand, and a dollhouse popped into being in front of him. It was large, with multiple floors and a tiny working kitchen, just the right size for a pair of mice-sized people. The two Dursleys gave loud squawks of alarm and tried to run off towards the staircase of the real house, but Snape swooped down and picked them both up before they could run off. He plunked the two down into the dollhouse.

"It seems apropos to ruin your lives, the way you ruined Harry's," Dumbledore said, his voice now sad as he contemplated the two tiny humans. "But don't worry, I'll allow you to become normal sized again. All it will take is remorse. Each time that you feel genuinely guilty about what you've done to your own nephew, you will grow slightly bigger, as will the dollhouse you're living in. When you have fully comprehended the enormity of your actions, and you've apologized, you will return to your own size."

Mini-Dursley did not like this. He began shouting at the top of his lungs, but all that came out was a squeaking voice more amusing than concerning.

"How long will it take? How long are you going to leave us like this?" Petunia said, her voice even higher pitched than her husband's.

The dark look came back to Dumbledore, and he narrowed his eyes. "That's up to you entirely. To be honest, I find that I. Don't. Care. Come, Severus, time to go."

And the two of them were off, leaving two living dolls raging behind them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who has read my little fic. It is so fun to write, and it's so fun to have a good audience. Thank you especially to those who have left reviews (including the guest reviews). This chapter is a little different, as it changes points of view several times. I don't own the characters (and good thing, because I don't know that JKR would appreciate what I've done with Vernon Dursley here). **

Chapter Five

Dudley Dursley was having a very bad day.

It had started out okay, with a sleepover at Piers's house, followed by an uproarious party in the neighborhood park, featuring Dudley, Piers, and several of their closest friends (namely, Jack Daniels and Samuel Adams). It had been particularly fun when some of the local kids had shown up, and Dudley and Piers made three of them cry using nothing but words (and the fourth with a well-timed left hook).

Then the two of them headed into town for dinner, which was especially great because they hadn't had to pay for it (although the restaurant proprietor had been unimpressed). Back to the park, back to the Jack Daniels. Until well after dark, Dudley and Piers sat on the swings at the playground, swapping bottles of beers and talking about hot girls at Smeltings, the boarding school they both attended.

Typical Tuesday.

But when Dudley had passed Dad's new car on his way into the house, a little after 10 p.m, he was surprised to find that the house was dark already. Dad usually watched the news at 10, usually greeted Dudley when the boy arrived home. Today, nothing. No Mom ready with some sweet treat she allowed him to have each evening, no Dad asking what fun he'd had with his friends today.

He wondered if Harry Potter had done something to make his parents go to bed early. It happened occasionally, when his cousin was so rotten that it made everyone tired. Dudley knew, of course, that his dad's tiredness usually came from the physical exertion of having beaten his cousin soundly. On those nights, Dudley took himself off to bed early as well, keeping the volume on his TV low and all attention away from his room. Dad had never hit Dudley, but you don't grow up in a house with one child being abused and never worry about it.

Moving easily through the darkened living room, Dudley headed upstairs to see if they were in bed. To his surprise, Harry's door was open. Usually if the day had gone badly, Dad locked Harry's door. Dudley risked a look; Harry was gone, as was his stuff, including his enormous owl cage.

What on earth had happened today?

Feeling more nervous, Dudley approached his parents' bedroom. It too was empty, his parents nowhere to be seen. They hadn't taken any of their stuff, though, as Dudley could see that the bathroom was still fastidiously clean (as Mom always demanded from Harry when he cleaned it). Their toothbrushes still sat side by side on the counter.

They had disappeared. Almost like … (But Dudley couldn't say the "m" word; again, you couldn't grow up in a house with a boy punished every time something strange happened or the word _magic_ was used and not worry about it.)

Well, perhaps they were in the kitchen. Sitting in the dark. Quiet as mice. Sure, that could be the case, right? He headed back downstairs, tripping a little over his own feet on the bottom step.

He turned on the living room light.

He screamed.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was having a very bad day.

It had started out badly, actually, with several owls from the Minister of Magic and other pompous people, demanding Albus's attention, advice, assistance.

Typical Tuesday.

Albus knew, now that everyone was acknowledging the return of Voldemort, that it was likely to get worse before it got better. Several times in the last few weeks, he'd barely had time to pursue his own projects.

Thus it was, that this morning he had written the shortest replies possible each of the demanding letters, then holed himself up in his office at Hogwarts, determined to spend some time thinking.

In particular, Albus Dumbledore had been thinking about Horcruxes.

So far as he knew, no one else had made the connection with Voldemort and Horcruxes. Which meant no one else would ever be able to find a way to stop the evil wizard. It was up to Dumbledore (and Harry Potter, if the dark suspicions of Albus's mind were correct).

Speaking of Harry, Albus remembered that only yesterday he'd had an owl from both Remus Lupin and Molly Weasley, informing him that the boy had not yet gotten in touch with any of them. In fact, Harry had ignored letters from his friends entirely.

Albus knew that Harry must be grieving. Losing Sirius Black was almost like losing his own parents all over again, except this time he was almost 16, not one. Albus himself grieved the loss of the Order member, but he knew the pain he felt must be nothing to what Harry was dealing with, alone and unsupported on Privet Drive.

So a little after lunchtime, he'd sent Severus to visit the boy, to check in on him, knowing full well that Harry really needed to stay put for a few more weeks and Snape was the best man to make that clear.

And now, here it was in the late evening, and Albus was back in his office, pacing the floor with angry energy as he contemplated what had just happened with the Dursleys.

He should have known.

Severus might be willing to absolve Albus of the guilt, but Albus knew better. No one had his fingers in as many pies as Albus Dumbledore, and somehow, he'd gotten too busy for _fifteen years_ to check on the boy who was going to be the savior of the British wizarding world. It had occurred to him once or twice over the years that perhaps he ought to check in, but he'd never done it. Had trusted Petunia Dursley with her sister's son.

Maybe he hadn't wanted to know. Maybe it was easier to pretend, along with Harry himself, that everything was fine. That it was normal for a boy to show up each September with his ribs poking through and new work calluses on his hands.

Albus Dumbledore heaved a sigh and flopped himself down in front of his phoenix, Fawkes. It was too late now to do anything about the dismal childhood Harry had had. Too late to resolve any of the blame Dumbledore had. There was nothing to do but hope for the best, and provide Severus whatever support he needed as he got Harry to open up about his past.

There was no question in Albus's mind that Harry was going to need to talk about his past. With everything that went on at school and with Voldemort, Harry was going to need to be at the top of his game, not weighed down by the dark secrets he kept about his home life. The only way to deal with the abuse would be to get it out in the open. And, Albus knew, he would never be the best man to help Harry with this. He'd kept too many secrets from the boy, spent too little time listening to him.

He thought, with a grin that almost reached his eyes, that perhaps allowing Severus Snape a try to help Harry was futile as well. But the two of them had enough in common that it would probably be good for both of them.

If they survived each other.

In the meantime, he had one more Floo call to make before he could be done for the day. Arabella Figgs, the Dursleys' neighbor and the only person who had ever tried to convinced Dumbledore that something was wrong, would have to be informed. Besides, she was the best person to call child protective services the next day, to get Dudley Dursley away from his parents. Severus Snape was not the only one who'd read Vernon Dursley's mind that evening, and Dumbledore knew that with Harry gone, the next target for Dursley's anger would probably be his own son.

He couldn't do anything about Harry's past, but at least he could protect another child's future.

* * *

Vernon Dursley was having a very bad day.

It hadn't started out too badly. Although he'd typically be at work on a Tuesday, he got to stay home on this particular one, due to some unused vacation time needing to be met before he lost it. He and Petunia had stayed in bed past the usual time, enjoying each other's company in a way that was usually reserved for Sunday nights.

But then the Potter brat started making noises in the kitchen downstairs, disturbing Vernon until he was shaking with anger. Petunia, recognizing the signs, disappeared into the bathroom while Vernon went to confront the brat.

What followed between him and the freak had soothed his anger considerably. For fifteen years, Vernon had been able to take out his aggression on the boy. Before Potter had arrived on their front steps as a baby, Vernon had been full of anxiety, unsure how to curb the rage that often swelled up in him at the slightest provocation. He'd never hit Petunia or Dudley, but the urge to do _something_ was always there. And then, lo and behold, the perfect means had arrived. Sure, he'd complained loudly about taking in his wife's nephew, but under the surface, he'd been relieved. Now he knew he would never hurt his wife or son, as another target was ready and available.

The build-up of anger was horrific after the freak had started attending that school, though. Sometimes Vernon didn't know if he was going to make it till June without exploding. He started sending Petunia away in May every year, on long spa vacations by herself, where she was safe from him. He didn't explain, and he didn't know how much she guessed.

But then the freak was home again each year, looking happy (ish) and well-fed, and just itching for trouble.

So Vernon had given him trouble. It was a good system (although, he supposed, not for the freak).

Until today, when that long-haired bastard in the black robes had shown up, taken one long look at the boy, and whisked Potter away. Somewhere to cuddle him and coddle him and ask him about his evil uncle, Vernon supposed. He'd spent several hours pacing around the house, jumping every time the phone rang in case it was the police or child protective services.

But instead, what had finally come was much worse.

And now, Vernon Dursley was about the size of one of Dudley's action figures, and so angry that Petunia sat on a different floor of the dollhouse to stay away from him. By the time Dudley arrived home, turned on the light to see his parents shrunk, and screamed, Vernon was shaking with rage.

"Shut up, Dudley!" he shouted, then winced at the sound of his tiny voice.

"Dad?" Dudley asked, his voice considerably deeper than Vernon was used to.

"Of course it's me. The brat's freaky friends showed up and shrunk your mother and me."

Dudley took a few steps closer to his father. "You're so … small," he said in wonder. Vernon narrowed his eyes.

"Diddykins," Petunia said from the floor below, her little voice grating on Vernon's nerves. "Can you get some food for us? I'm terribly hungry."

"Never mind that," Vernon growled. "You need to find a way to fix us, Dudley."

"But what can I do?" Dudley said. "What did you to do Harry that made him do this to you?"

Vernon couldn't contain it any longer. He picked up a chair that was more than half his height and threw it at his own son, where it bounced harmlessly off the boy's chest. To his horror, Dudley laughed.

"I'll bring you some food, Mom," he said, then turned around to head to the real kitchen.

"You come back here immediately, son!" Vernon shouted, but Dudley ignored him. It was a few minutes before Dudley returned, carrying a salad plate with cheese and crackers on it. The boy placed the plate down on the floor by Petunia.

"Dudley," Vernon said, taking a deep breath and trying to be calm. "We need your help, son."

But Dudley was ignoring him. "Is Harry gone for good, then?" he asked.

"Damn right," Vernon said, at the same time that Petunia said, "Probably so."

To Vernon's surprise, Dudley's face drooped a little in disappointment. Then he perked back up, grinning at his father.

"Tell you what, Dad. I'm going to bed, and we'll talk more in the morning. Night, Mom."

"Don't you dare, Dudley Dursley. You stay here and help us fix this. Dudley. Dudley!"

But the boy was already disappearing up the stairs.

There was silence for a few minutes, while Vernon paced back and forth angrily across the plastic floor of the dollhouse. He could hear Petunia nibbling on crackers below him. Then she spoke.

"You know what the headmaster said. We won't be returned to our proper size until we feel remorse for what you, I mean we, did to the brat."

Vernon harrumphed.

"At least consider it, Vernon dear. I'm going to try to get some sleep."

And so Vernon was left alone with his dark thoughts. It was all that little freak's fault. If Vernon ever got out of here, he would find the boy and kill him. It wasn't enough anymore just to beat him senseless. The boy had gotten him into this mess, and Vernon was going to take every bit of rage out on the freak's useless hide.

He sneered.

And didn't even notice that he was now half an inch shorter.

* * *

Harry Potter was having a very bad day.

He thought the horrible day was over when he fell asleep, courtesy of Snape's sleeping potion. But Harry had woken up only a couple of hours later when his right wrist was seizing in pain. He recognized this particular pain, having lived through it a few years earlier when Gilderoy Lockhart had removed all the bones from Harry's arm. As it turned out, knitting bones back together was almost as painful as regrowing them.

In addition to the pain, Harry also was uncomfortably wet, having drooled quite a bit in his sleep.

He got out of the (most comfortable he'd ever slept in) bed and winced his way across the room to the chair in front of the window. It was pitch black outside, so dark that no stars even shown in the sky.

He wondered where Snape was.

The house was dark and still, no sound coming from the floor below or above Harry. He guessed that Snape wasn't exactly the keep-a-vigil-by-the-wounded-child's-bedside type, and that was a good thing. Harry had embarrassed himself enough in front of the greasy git today.

What was he going to do now?

Returning to the Dursleys didn't seem like the best option. Harry knew that the blood magic protected him from Voldemort there, but in the meantime, he was fairly certain that Snape would tell Dumbledore, and that even Dumbledore wouldn't make him go back now.

Fairly certain. All right, kind of certain. Probably.

Perhaps Snape would let Harry go to the Burrow and stay with Ron for the rest of the summer. But that option didn't seem that great either; Ron's family was so busy and happy, and Harry was always a little out of place.

Grimmauld Place was out of the question.

In fact, _thinking_ about Grimmauld Place was out of the question, because that just reminded him of his godfather, and Harry wasn't going to think about his godfather right now.

He was pretty sure he wouldn't be allowed to go to Hogwarts for the summer. Maybe Hagrid? Perhaps the friendly half-giant who was Harry's first friend would make some room for him in the cottage at the edge of the Forbidden Forest? But Hagrid was off doing jobs for Dumbledore and didn't have as much time for Harry as in the past.

To Harry's surprise and annoyance, he realized tears were sliding down his cheeks onto his hands. Faster and faster, and accompanied now by sobs that Harry immediately tried to suppress. _It's just the pain_, he told himself, knowing he was lying.

Harry had fought off Voldemort by himself not once, not twice, but three times (not even including the time he'd been a baby). Without friends nearby, he'd saved Ginny Weasley from a basilisk and the memory of Tom Riddle. On his own, Harry had faced down dementors, creatures in the Forbidden Forest, his own abusive uncle, and monstrous tasks in the Triwizard Tournament. Harry knew how to do things without help.

But right now, sitting in the window of a house where he was entirely safe, Harry cried more than he'd cried in years.

He had never felt so alone.

* * *

Severus Snape was having a very bad day.

The adrenaline from confronting the Dursleys with Albus had worn off, and Snape sat in his study, swirling a single glass of firewhiskey around in circles until his wrist began to hurt. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd seen in Dursley's mind, the years of abuse and anger towards Harry Potter.

Potter, whom Snape himself had verbally abused since the first day he'd arrived at Hogwarts.

What Snape had done to the boy was no comparison to what Dursley had done, he knew. Snape had never laid a finger on him, had never starved him of food, had never (as far as Snape knew) made him cry.

So why was guilt settling itself into Snape's bones and disrupting his desire to go to sleep? He'd never felt guilt before for the way he'd treated his students. If anything, Severus Snape felt proud of the way his Slytherins responded to him, the way they confided in him and came to him for help.

But Potter was different.

That boy was always different. He just had to be the exception to every rule, including, apparently, Snape's own rules about how the world should work. _Damn_ the boy.

Snape knocked back a swallow, relishing the burn as the firewhiskey made its way down his throat.

There was no help for it. He had promised Dumbledore that he'd try to help Harry deal with this issues this summer, and try Snape would. The brat would have to be required to talk about what had happened, to deal with it rather than just repressing the memories and planting an arrogant smile on his face. Snape would have to find a way.

He suspected that Potter would not cooperate. He suspected he shouldn't be grinning at the thought of finding ways to _make_ Potter cooperate.

But all of that was a problem for tomorrow. It was time for bed.

On the way to his own bedroom, he paused outside the guest room door. Potter should be fast asleep, still under the grip of the sleeping potion he'd taken several hours earlier. To Snape's surprise, he could hear sounds coming from inside. With a wave of his wand and a whispered word, he made the door translucent so he could check on Potter without the boy seeing him.

Potter was curled up in the chair by the window, sobbing with his head on his arms.

Snape pondered. He could go in and check on him, embarrassing both of them. He could send in some supplies of some type, perhaps a tissue so the disgusting boy didn't continue wiping his face on Snape's throw blanket. He could go Floo-call Lupin or someone else, someone who would know how to comfort Potter.

In the end, he did nothing. Just stood outside the door, watching the teenager cry, confronted with the sorrow that he'd helped create but could do nothing about.

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Leave a review if you like.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Sorry this chapter has taken a little more time. I had written everything that I'd already outlined, and I'd expected the story to be done, but I've had such good feedback from ya'll that now it will continue for a few more chapters. This chapter really gets some good Snape/Harry stuff happening. I'm trying to keep it all in character (although you know this genre tends to get a little ooc eventually). Please enjoy, and thank you for all your support!**

Chapter Six -

Harry woke in pain. His arm was the worst of it, the nerve endings in his entire right arm tingling like they'd been asleep for hours and just woke up. But his head hurt as well. He was, he discovered, still sitting in the chair near the window.

Snape's house.

_Snape_'s house.

It was morning, and the sun shining on his face through the east-facing window warmed his spirits but didn't make the situation any less bizarre. He took a moment to feel sorry for himself. Seriously. _Snape's house_, as in, the greasy git who had verbally tortured Harry for years, who'd never lost an opportunity to make Harry feel like a flobberworm under seige.

What would Ron and Hermione think?

But Harry Potter was nothing if not resilient, and curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. He wanted to know what Snape was doing, and he wanted to explore more of this amazing house now that it was light enough to see. He wanted to find out what was going to happen to him now.

The bedroom door was locked. Snape had locked him in. Harry wished he had his wand with him (although he remembered now that he couldn't do magic anyway, even here at Prince Manor; the underage magic laws prevented it, and he really didn't want to get in trouble with the ministry). He considered having a shower and changing clothes, but he didn't exactly have anything to change into (he had no idea where Snape had put his trunk), and he didn't dare use the shower without permission. Being deprived of showering priviledges had been a favorite of Aunt Petunia.

So Harry waited.

It wasn't a long wait. He'd had time to look through the first of the wall-height bookshelves when the door snapped open and Snape entered, pulling Harry's trunk behind him.

Harry wasn't sure what he would feel when Snape came in. He knew he owed the man a great debt of gratitude for getting him away from Uncle Vernon and then personally tending Harry's wounds. He remembered Snape calling him by his first name, the professor's voice gentle for the first time since Harry had known him. Harry knew that he ought to feel a rush of compassion and gratitude as soon as he saw Snape this morning.

As it turned out, gratitude was not the emotion that Snape's appearance brought. The sneer on Snape's face brought up familiar feelings of revulsion and anger, and Harry couldn't stop himself from glaring at the man's feet. He didn't dare meet Snape's eyes, worried that Snape would legilimize him again without his permission.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said, his voice back to the usual slimy tone. "I know it might be a great change from what you are used to, but in this house, we sleep in our beds at night."

Harry flushed. How had Snape even known that Harry spent most of the night in a chair instead of the bed? But the man wasn't done annoying Harry yet.

"I'm not going to bother asking how you feel, as you would simply lie and say you're fine, and I can read pain all over your face."

Harry's right hand involuntarily gripping the scars on his left arm. _I must not tell lies_. He didn't like being called a liar.

"I am fine, sir." Harry kept his words clipped and angry, his eyes swinging up almost to meet Snape's before he dropped them again.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Potter. Here." Snape walked forward to hand Harry a vial of pain portion. Harry shook his head, refusing to take the vial.

"I'm not in pain. Sir."

"Look at me, Potter," Snape said.

Harry shook his head.

"This is becoming familiar territory with you, Mr. Potter, so this is the first of the rules I will enforce during your time here. You will look me in the eyes when I talk to you." An unspoken _or else_ followed Snape's statement.

Harry weighed his options. He could do as Snape said, keepng the peace for now but opening up Harry to further mind rape and humiliation. Or he could ignore the professor, causing a fight now but saving Harry's memories.

He kept his eyes down.

But Snape was apparently done playing the game, because long fingers came out of nowhere to grab Harry's chin and lift his gaze to Snape's. Harry flinched, not sure if he was more afraid of the mental assault that Snape had done before, or the more primal fear that Snape would treat him like Uncle Vernon had, punishing him severely at the signs of any disobedience.

Snape did neither. Instead, he looked Harry in the eye for what felt like an eternity to Harry, his black eyes impenetrable. Unlike Vernon, whose taste for violence was easily read on his face, Snape gave nothing away.

"You will look me in the eyes when I talk to you, Mr. Potter," Snape said in a low voice. "Do you understand?"

Harry forced himself not to pull away from the danger he was sensing everywhere. He gave a short nod.

"Good." Snape dropped Harry's chin.

"Wait, sir," Harry said, his thoughts taking a moment to catch up. "During my time here? I thought I was going somewhere else this morning? The Burrow or Grimmauld Place or something?"

"It has been decided that you will stay here for the time being," Snape said, turning away from Harry.

"Stay here?!" Harry blurted out in horror. "You must be joking, sir."

Snape rounded on him, anger written all over his long features. "Are you hard of hearing, Potter? Do I seem like I'm joking?"

"No, sir. But why?"

Snape heaved a sigh. "Professor Dumbledore thinks that you need someone to talk to, to process the abuse you have been living under with your relatives. I have the good fortune of being the person volunteered for the position."

Harry was taken aback. Dumbledore knew what was going on, knew what had happened to Harry not only in the last day but over his lifetime, and he'd left Harry with Snape?

"Um, I'd rather not," Harry said, trying to strike some sort of polite tone, but his insides were reeling again. Dumbledore and Snape had _discussed_ him, and the conclusion they came to was that Snape would make the best therapist for the troubled teenage boy. Poor Harry Potter, abused by his own uncle. Who could possibly make a better sounding board to help him feel better about his _widdle life_ than the man who had hated him for five years?

"Fortunately for us both, Potter, you are not being given a choice. Now, get dressed, and for Merlin's sake, brush your teeth. Breakfast will be on the table in fifteen minutes."

Snape disappeared before Harry could make any protest. He glared after the sweep of the man's black robe for several long moments, trying to pull his emotions into something resembling functional. What was happening to his life?

The irony of it was, that Harry desperately wanted someone to talk to. He would have given almost anything to have even a few minutes more with his godfather, Sirius Black. So many times, he'd almost told Black what things were really like at home. But then Black would tell him again how much Harry reminded Black of James Potter, and Harry couldn't bring himself to disillusion the man. Harry wasn't like James. James was strong, confident, and brave. Harry felt like a snivelling flobberworm in comparison. So he'd just never opened his mouth. And now Sirius was beyond helping.

He'd almost Dumbledore once or twice as well, but everytime he encountered the man, he'd left feeling braver than before, and he couldn't destroy the man's faith in him. Nor could he tell Hermione and Ron, who would resent him for lying to them for so many years.

Besides, no one could have actually done anything. Even yesterday, after getting solid evidence that something horrible was happening to Harry, Snape hadn't done anything but temporarily removed him from the situation. Harry suspected that he would be right back at the Dursleys' house, certainly no later than next summer. Maybe as early as this summer.

Maybe Snape was planning to send him right back as soon as he'd _talked it all out_.

It was in a foul mood that Harry washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth, and changed into clean (albeit baggy and torn) clothes from the trunk that Snape had left in his room. By the time he got downstairs and oriented himself enough to find the dining room, he was seething.

It was all Snape's fault.

The man himself sat at the table, his plate of food already empty; apparently Harry was late. Another plate sat across the small table, so full of food that Harry looked automatically for a smaller plate, assuming that one was a serving platter.

"With as long as you took, I assumed you might have taken a shower, Potter. In the future, please do so, that we are not both subject to the odor of unwashed teenage boy."

Harry flushed. He had wanted to shower, but wasn't sure if he was allowed to (all his showers were under strict control at the Dursleys). Furthermore, showering the day after a beating usually just caused pain.

But he said nothing.

"Potter," Snape said.

Harry remembered the rule Snape had enacted, and snapped his eyes up for a split second to Snape's. Snape nodded; apparently that was enough to stay out of trouble for a few more minutes.

"That's your plate. If you'll be requiring more than that, you'll need to make it yourself." Snape gestured to the large, overflowing plate with bacon, eggs, toast, and a banana.

"I—" Harry started before cutting himself off. There was no point telling Snape he couldn't possibly eat that much food; his appetite had signifantly shrunk this summer, as it always did under Vernon Dursley's forced starvation diet. It always took Harry weeks into the school year at Hogwarts before he was eating normally again.

But Snape didn't need to know any of that. So Harry sat down and began to nibble on the toast.

"Good. Now we will talk a little. First, rule number two while you are living here under my care. I will occasionally ask you what you are thinking or feeling, particularly when you interrupt yourself in an attempt to push me away, as you have just done not twenty seconds ago. When I ask you questions, of these sorts or any others, I expect completely honest answers."

Harry glared up at him, his mouth too full of toast to say anything.

"The whole point behind you being here at my house, Mr. Potter, is to help you deal with the trauma and abuse that has occurred in your childhood. We will not get anywhere without honesty."

Harry muttered something under his breath, swallowing past the growing lump in his throat.

"Thank you for providing us an opportunity to try out rule number two so quickly. What is it that you just said, Mr. Potter?" Snape's lips curled into a sneer, and the man leaned back in his chair. It reminded Harry so much of years worth of disastrous potions lessons that he could no longer keep the anger at bay.

"Why do you care?" he shouted, pushing himself away from the table and (to his embarrassment and disgust), showering both the table and Snape's face with crumbs from the toast in his mouth. Seeing Snape's jaw clench, Harry couldn't stop himself from scuttering backward into the nearest corner, dropping to the floor in a crouch. He knew where he was on one level, but a smaller, younger part of him was back in the Dursleys, having just made Vernon angry and now expecting a terrible reprisal.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry."

But no one came at him. Vernon didn't appear in Harry's peripheral vision to whip him into submission, and eventually he stopped saying the words and blinked a few times. Snape was still sitting across the table, not having moved more muscles than necessary to clean off his face. Instead, the potions professor was not even looking at Harry.

"It is a fair question," Snape said after Harry slowly climbed to his feet again. Snape's voice made it sound like they were continuing a normal conversation, completely ignoring the panic attack Harry had just had. "Why do I care? Unfortunately, I cannot answer it at this time. Perhaps in the future."

Then Snape waited, not looking directly at Harry, but somewhere over Harry's left ear. To his embarrassment, Harry realized that Snape was deliberately trying to appear … _un_menacing to the teenager. This was a side of Snape he'd never seen before, but given the circumstances, he felt relieved.

"Come, sit. Eat your breakfast, Potter."

Harry walked forward slowly, slinking back into the chair and stabbing randomly at some egg. He was already full, as he'd known he would be. For a few silent moments, he moved food around on the plate.

"Is my cooking not good enough for you, precious Potter?" Snape asked, but some of the sneer had left the man's voice.

"I'm not very hungry," Harry said quietly.

"Speak up. And remember rule number one. Make eye contact when we talk."

Harry took a deep breath, then raised his eyes to meet Snape's. "It tastes fine. I'm just not very hungry, sir."

Snape stared at him, his dark eyes unpenetrable.

"Very well. Let us discuss your schedule for the foreseeable future. Mornings will be reserved for homework. I suspect you have not even started your summer homework, and I will not have you return to Hogwarts from my care without having done an outstanding job on all your summer essays."

Harry groaned. Living with Snape was going to be way worse than having Hermione annoying him by owl all summer long.

"Afternoon will be chores. I will assign you a few tasks each day that must be done without magic. After dinner each evening, we will convene in my office. There you will begin to deal with the abuse you have been subject to so far."

"And if I don't?" Harry interrupted, unable to help himself even though he knew Snape wouldn't appreciate the question.

"Then we shall practice Occlumency," Snape said with a smirk.

"Oh," Harry said. Yes, Occlumency would be worse than just talking. Maybe. Probably? It might really amount to the same thing anyway: Snape seeing way more about Harry's life than Harry wanted him to.

"Yes, sir," he said, feeling resigned.

"If I am satisfied with your progress in a few days time, I will allow you to contact your friends by owl," Snape said, making Harry's face jerk up with a grin. Then his grin faded. What was he going to tell Hermione and Ron? Perhaps it would be easier to be held captive here without any contact.

For Merlin's sake. Talking to Snape about his feelings, living here in the man's home, doing his chores, eating meals one-on-one with him. It was going to be a long summer.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! R and R.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: A little Harry/Snape fun. Or not fun, really. I hope you like it! I don't own the characters.**

**Chapter Seven - **

By the time Harry crawled under the blankets that evening, he was weary to the bone. He was used to chores, of course, as he spent hours doing them every day all summer long for years now. He was used to living in a house where people disliked him, so Snape's sneer wasn't that bothersome. Even most of the pain from his injuries was gone.

It must have been the combination of everything: hours of homework, hours of chores, three solid meals (which he really had attempted to eat, whatever Snape thought about him). The pain and the unsettled feeling from being so far from everything he'd known. Yes, that was it. He was just unsettled.

Surely his exhaustion had nothing to do with what had happened in Snape's study this evening.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Maybe he could just forget the entire thing; maybe he could accidentally obliviate himself while he slept, and he could wake up in an entirely new place. Somewhere that Snape wasn't; _anywhere_ that he wasn't, really. His own tiny bedroom on Privet Drive? The cat-smell-filled tent he'd stayed in at the Quidditch World Cup? A nice guest room down the hall from Lord Voldemort? Any of those places would be better than being here for one more day.

It hadn't started that badly. Snape had actually managed to find all Harry's stuff from his bedroom, including his school books, and the surly professor had left Harry alone all morning, giving Harry time to ostensibly work on homework.

Harry had tried, he really had. But his mind was going a mile a minute, and he couldn't concentrate on History of Magic to save his life. All he could think about was what was coming, Snape's threat to make Harry start talking about his life.

Lunch was delicious (some sort of venison stew), but Harry couldn't eat more than few bites.

The chores Snape set him to were the easiest part of the day. Harry was good at chores, and Snape asked for only some help in the yard and cleaning up Harry's own bedroom and bathroom. Mindless drudgery, but fast.

And then it had been dinnertime, and then dinner was over before Harry even knew what he'd eaten, and Snape was gesturing him towards the study.

"Can we talk about this, sir?" Harry asked, staying in his seat at the kitchen table.

"Certainly. In my study. As I instructed," Snape said, his voice slow and mocking.

Harry considered his options. He could refuse to get up from the table, but it wasn't like Snape couldn't just use magic to float Harry anywhere he wanted. Ditto doing something stupid like running off to his bedroom like a child. He could go with Snape to the study, but then refuse to talk.

Of course, then Snape would just use Legilimency on him, and he'd end up getting the whole story anyway, without Harry able to control any part of it. Not for the first time, Harry cursed his own inability to use Occlumency. Not that he was allowed to use magic here anyway.

There really was only one option. He'd have to go with Snape and talk about something, but he sure as hell didn't have to give Snape any more information than he wanted. He could talk about some of the recent stuff, stuff Snape had already seen, and that could be enough. At least for tonight.

Once inside the study, Harry couldn't help looking around in curiosity. Unlike the potions classroom at Hogwards, Snape's study in his own home was full of light, mostly coming in from the windows that somehow graced all four walls (even though Harry knew this room was not acutally standing alone in the house). There were three chairs: one large office chair behind a desk that was almost bare except for two neat stacks of papers, and two squishy chairs facing each other over a low, round table with a wizard's chess set on it. A thick rug in a light green color took up most of the floor.

And the books.

If everywhere else in the house had seemed to have bookshelves, this room was exploding with them. Harry couldn't see a single portion of exposed wall, and every bookshelf was stacked sometimes several books deep. There were more books here than he'd ever seen in one place before, including the Hogwarts library.

"Hermione would love this," he said involuntarily, then almost bit his tongue. Like Snape would want to hear that. Harry was sure he imagined the almost-grin that flitted across Snape's lips.

"Have a seat, Mr. Potter," Snape said, gesturing to one of the chairs by the chess set.

"You want to play chess, sir?" Harry said in astonishment.

"Not particularly. It is simply a place to sit."

Harry nodded and slunk into one of the chairs. He kept his eyes down, but could see Snape's black-robed figure falling gracefully into the other chair. Harry took a deep breath.

Now it would come. The questions that he didn't want to answer. The things he didn't want anyone else to know. Unconsciously, he twisted slightly on the chair, feeling the mostly-healed wounds on his back prickling at him. It was like Vernon Dursley himself was there, telling Harry exactly what would happen if he ever told anyone what was going on.

His friends. His belongings (which Harry assumed meant only the ones he cared about: the photo album with his parents, his invisibility cloak, his owl, his wand and broomstick). Uncle Vernon had promised to take it all away from him, to destroy everything good about his life.

His heart started pounding. Distracted for a moment, Harry watched his pulse jump in his own left wrist, just below the scars.

"Are you in pain, Potter?" Snape asked.

"No, sir," Harry whispered.

"What is rule number one, Mr. Potter?"

Harry tried to look up at Snape, but his emotions were in such turmoil that suddenly he couldn't remember where he was, and he wasn't sure if he was facing Severus Snape or Vernon Dursley.

His belongings and friends, torn to shreds, littered across the highway of his broken childhood.

"Potter."

Harry shook his head, his eyes squeezing shut. "Please leave me alone."

"_Harry_."

At the unexpected sound of his first name, Harry was able to focus for a moment, and he looked up to find Snape thrusting a small vial in his direction, the man's face betraying some emotion that looked almost like alarm.

"I'm not in pain, sir," Harry was able to say.

"It's not pain potion, it's a calming draught."

Harry started to shake his head.

"Don't be an idiot, boy. You clearly are having a panic attack about something, and you need to calm down. I'm not about to poison you."

At the exasperated sneer of Snape's voice, Harry shook himself a little, taking a deep breath. He took the vial and downed the contents in one gulp. Calming draught wasn't as disgusting as some of the other things Snape had forced down him, and he could feel the results immediately as his pulse slowed and his breathing returned to normal.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said.

"I'm now going to invoke rule two. You will tell me what just happened to you, where you were and who you saw."

"I don't want to talk about—"

"Whatever inane protest is about to come out of you, boy, will make no difference to me. Dumbledore's orders are that I help you process the abuse you've been living under. We have much to talk about. We will start with whatever just happened to you." Snape's voice stayed mild.

At the sound of the headmaster's name, Harry felt another surge of negative emotion, swelling faster than he could control. Dumbledore leaving him with Snape, Dumbledore lying to him about prophecies. Where had Dumbledore been all this time when Harry needed someone? To his surprise, words started spilling from the lips he had intended to carefully control all evening long.

"Why does Dumbledore care? As long as I'm alive enough to kill Voldemort, he's never cared before if I'm thrown around a little in the meantime," Harry said bitterly. "He's never stopped the Dursleys before, so why now?"

Rather than answering his questions, Snape nodded. "Go on, Potter."

Momentarily at a loss with Snape's uncharacteristic mildness, Harry stopped. Then whatever feeling had opened his mouth a moment ago swept through again.

"And you? Why do you care? You've hated me for five years, and hated my father before me. You've never believed anything I've said, and you've tried to get me thrown out of Hogwarts. Now you're saying I have to talk to you about my problems, things I've never even told people that actually like me."

Snape pounced on that statement. "Why is that, Mr. Potter? Why did you never tell anyone what was going on at your home?"

Harry snorted. "Who am I going to tell?"

"Friends? Miss Granger or Mr. Weasley? Lupin or Black? Professor McGonall?"

When Snape said the names, it seemed obvious. Harry bowed his head, feeling mutinous and patronized.

"I just didn't, okay? Get off my back."

"You could have gotten help years ago," Snape said, pushing the issue.

"Because I deserve it, okay?" Harry shouted, standing up and throwing one of the chess pieces directly at Snape, who caught it without looking surprised. "I deserve it," Harry repeated, this time in horror as he sat back down. "I've always deserved it, from the very beginning."

"As a one year old, Harry?" Snape said.

"I killed my mum and dad," Harry whispered against his own will, then buried his face in his hands, afraid that he was about to burst into tears. What on earth was going on with him? Why was he telling Snape all of this? He had come into this room with every intention of ignoring the potions master entirely, and instead Snape was somehow digging out his darkest secrets, without even trying.

"You killed your mum and dad?" Snape repeated. To Harry's surprise, Snape sounded almost … sad, although he was only repeating Harry's own words. But the next words Snape spoke were back to his regular mocking tone. "And, pray tell, how did a one year old infant go about defeating an accomplished witch and her wizard husband?"

"I didn't— It's not like that— I didn't _personally _kill them. But I'm the reason they're dead. Dumbledore told me at the end of last year, that Voldemort only came after them to kill me, and it's my fault they're dead."

"Your fault," repeated Snape.

"And Cedric Diggory," Harry continued, his cursed mouth out of his control again and determined to spill all his secrets bare. "Professor Quirrell. My godfa … Sirius Black. They're all dead because of me. I deserve to be punished."

"Tell me, Potter, did you come up with these ridiculous ideas on your own, or were they given to you?" Snape asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Did your uncle tell you it was your fault? That you were being punished because of what you'd done?"

Taken aback by the change in questioning, Harry simply nodded.

"More than once?" Snape asked.

"All the time," Harry said dully. "Every day, he'd remind me that it was my fault he was mean, that it was my fault I'm an orphan. He didn't know about Cedric or Quirrell or Sirius, but he would have been right to blame me for them too."

All at once, the strange desire to tell Snape so many things disappeared, and Harry felt a familiar draining feeling, like the end of a magic spell. He looked up at Snape in horror.

"You drugged me," he said.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter," Snape said.

"The calming draught. You put something else in it, to make me talk." Harry stood up again, clenching his hands into fists.

"That would hardly be necessary, because you were fully willing to cooperate, correct?" Snape said, his voice as sarcastic as ever. "Perhaps there was a little _something_ that I used to help you along, had I deemed it necessary …"

"You drugged me! Was it Veritaserum?" Harry demanded.

"No. Just a variation on the calming draught that brings, um, emotions to the surface. It did not make you speak, just made you feel free to say the things that idiotic Gryffindor pride of yours wants you to keep hiding."

"That wasn't your choice, Snape!" Harry said. "I should be able to—"

"Oh shut up, Potter. It got the job done. You've started telling me what's going on with you, and now we have something we can move forward with."

Harry couldn't control himself any longer. He reached back one cocked fist and let it fly across the table, catching Snape squarely in the man's hooked nose, which immediately began spurting blood all over the chess set. Snape fell backward in astonishment, and Harry took the opportunity to run from the room, skidding across the floor as he rounded the staircase, and up to his room, where he immediately started stacking furniture in front of the door. His trunk, the little table, an arm chair. Anything to keep Snape out.

He'd punched Snape. In the nose.

Snape was going to kill him. Snape was going to end it all, right here, Dumbledore and Voldemort notwithstanding.

Harry sunk to the floor in front of the new pile of furniture, his entire body shaking. He was exhausted to the core, with the effects of the potion leaving his system and his fear fueling a racing heartbeat.

He sat there like that for what felt like an eternity, but was probably less than fifteen minutes. Then he could hear footsteps on the stairs, a sound that after a lifetime of abuse, caused terror to settle into his heart. This was it. This was the end. He wished he had Hedwig around to send letters to his friends, telling them goodbye. But no one would ever know he had been here, and Snape certainly wasn't going to confess to his murder.

He didn't even have his wand to try casting a patronus.

The footsteps slowed just outside his door, and Harry waited with stalled breath.

"Mr. Potter, can you hear me?" The voice came through his door clearly, and Harry flinched. Snape didn't actually sound mad; he sounded quiet and in pain, and Harry knew from long experience with Uncle Vernon that the quieter his attacker got, the worse the beating that followed.

Harry said nothing.

"I'm going to assume you can hear me," Snape went on. "We have had quite enough for one evening. Get some sleep. We will continue our discussion in the morning."

That was it? Harry had been expecting Snape to come in with wand raised to literally cast a killing spell. But instead he was sending Harry to bed?

Perhaps the killing would come in the morning. Vernon had done that occasionally, let Harry's anticipation of the beating last longer to make it all worse.

Regardless, Harry was exhausted, and he couldn't fight Snape or himself any longer for one evening. He crawled into bed, not bothering to remove his clothes or brush his teeth. He was weary to the bone. He'd have to face the music tomorrow.

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Sorry this update took a lot longer. I had IRL stuff to deal with. Tried to keep our boys in character, but they strayed just a little farther today. All credit due to JKR, who created this magnificent sandbox.**

Chapter Eight –

Severus Snape woke up to the sound of screaming for the third time that night. The first two times, he had rushed down the hall to Potter's room, only to stop outside the boy's door and not go in. Potter was clearly having nightmares, but given all that had come up that evening, Snape figured that his own face would not be a welcome sight to a teenager emerging from a nightmare. So he'd stood outside Potter's door both times, waiting for the boy to quiet down.

This third time, the screaming was louder. Snape checked his watch; it was only an hour or two before dawn at this point. It was too late to offer Potter a Dreamless Sleep potion, which Snape wished he'd done hours ago. All these nightmares couldn't be good for the boy, but more to the point, Snape was tired and getting cranky.

He debated what to do. He could go get Potter up, make him start working on some chores or something to tire him out. He could see if the boy wanted to talk about whatever he was dreaming of. He could stay right where he was and let precious Potter deal with his own nightmares.

Snape sighed. All his instincts told him to return to bed, to let the boy alone. But he also knew that, after the short brush with the inhibition-decreasing potion, Potter's emotions were more ragged than usual, and Merlin knew the boy had enough terrible things in his life to have nightmares about. Potter clearly wasn't going to just go back to sleep. Which meant he was going to keep waking Snape up.

So Severus pulled out a black dressing gown and stalked down the hall to Potter's room. He knocked on the door once, then again when the screaming continued. Potter didn't answer. Snape pushed the door open (which was quite a bit harder than he'd expected; the Golden Gryffindor had piled a random stack of furniture in front of the door at some point). The room was pitch black. After blinking a few times to adjust his eyes, Snape could see Potter thrashing around on the bed, moaning.

"Potter," Snape said in a low voice. No response. "Mr. Potter," he said more loudly.

The moaning cut off abruptly, and Potter sat up with his blankets pulled in front of him like a shield.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," the boy said, his voice terrified. Snape took a step closer to the bed, and the boy scrambled backwards, pulling his blankets literally over his head.

"I am not your Uncle Vernon," Snape snapped. "It is I, Severus Snape, your potions professor. Pull yourself together, Potter."

There was a long moment where the boy didn't move. Then his voice came muffled from behind the blankets. "Are you going to hurt me too?"

Snape took another step. "I will not be harming you in any way that I can prevent, Potter. Put down the blankets."

The boy took a long time to comply, but eventually, Potter dropped his blankets from off his head. Snape could see now in the dim light how badly Potter had been sleeping: his hair was a wreck (just like his idiot father's always was), and his face was lined with red splotches. He was even still dressed in his day clothes, although with the way the loose clothes hung on him, Snape couldn't tell for sure whether the ragged clothes were meant for day or night.

"You were having a nightmare," Snape prompted.

"I didn't mean to wake you, sir. I'll be quiet now," Potter said.

"Don't be an idiot, boy, I'm not angry with you. I thought—" and here Snape ground his teeth a little. "Perhaps it would help to talk about what's wrong."

Apparently Snape's gritted tone conveyed too well how Snape actually felt, because Potter didn't exactly jump at the chance. He was shaking his head before Snape even finished the invitation.

"No, thank you. Sir. I'll just go back to sleep."

"Right," Snape said sarcastically. "As that has worked so well for you tonight."

Potter said nothing, simply looked at Snape through tired eyes. Snape heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it; he was going to have to do something to help the boy. He tried to forget for a moment that this was precious Harry Potter. What would Snape do if it were one of his own Slytherins, in the wake of a nightmare from something awful at home?

Distraction. That was the key. Teenage boys needed to be distracted while they talked about difficult subjects.

"Well, if you're going to be awake anyway, you might as well get up and help me. Get cleaned up. I'll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes."

"Sir?" Potter said in surprise.

"Which part didn't you understand, Potter?" Snape snapped. "Fifteen minutes. Downstairs. Clean and dressed."

Potter nodded, and Snape had to hold in his slight smile as he left the room. Direct orders seemed to be the best way to deal with this boy, at least for now. That would make things easier. Instead of trying to coax Potter out of his emotional shell, or drug him out, Snape would issue some direct orders.

Fifteen minutes later, Snape arrived downstairs, clean and dressed in his customary black robes. Potter was already at the kitchen table, his fists clenching and unclencing in some sort of anxious fidget.

"Sir," Potter said upon Snape's arrival. "I'm really sorry about last night, I didn't mean to hit— I mean, it seriously just happened, and I know you were trying— I'm just, well, um, sorry."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Eloquent as ever, Mr. Potter. Tell you what, I will forget that you punched me in the face, and you may forget that I attempted to, um, enhance your emotions."

Potter mumbled something under his breath, then, at a stern look from Snape, said aloud, "You mean drug me. Sir."

"Yes. Well. We shall move on. I will resist the urge to compel you into obedience via the use of potions, and you will restrain yourself from—"

"Punching you in the nose again, sir?" Potter said, his eyes full of innocence, but for the first time, Snape noticed the trademark Potter smirk returning to the boy's face. He didn't know if he was more annoyed or gratified to see the boy beginning to come back to himself.

"Come along, brat," he said. It was time to see if what worked with some of his Slytherins would work on this hot-headed Gryffindor idiot. He led Potter down the hallway from the kitchen and through a door that had previously been camouflaged from the teenager's eyes. Down another short hallway, and then the two of them were in Snape's personal brewing lab.

Snape took a deep breath. The smell of herbs and concoctions was strong, and it was a familiar smell that never failed to comfort him. Even better, his personal lab never smelled like unwashed teenager, as his lab at school often did. In fact, Snape had never allowed another person into his personal lab.

Harry Potter. The special one.

Resisting the urge to kick the curious teenager out immediately for violating the privacy of his lab and his life, Snape nodded towards an apron hanging on the wall.

"You will be helping me cut ingredients this morning, Potter, so put on an apron and steel gloves and stand over by that table."

"Are you serious? We're missing sleep for extra potions homework?" Potter said in a voice that Snape wanted to characterize as whiny. He didn't bother answering, just started gathering the few ingredients he could allow the boy near without either of them causing (or wanting to cause) harm.

"These must be chopped into fine pieces. You should recognize the ingredient from your potions classes," Snape told him, putting a long knife on the table in front of the teenager.

"Why am I doing this?" Potter asked, not picking up the knife. "I mean, I don't mind helping with chores, but it's the middle of the night."

"Just get on with it, Potter."

With a sigh, the boy complied. Snape gave him a few minutes to work out the first irritation before Snape gathered his own, much more complicated, ingredients to work near Potter. For a few long minutes, they worked in silence, only the sound of the knives chopping against the block.

"Do you feel the way the knife registers against the table? It's a thudding motion, over and over and over again," Snape said finally. Potter stopped chopping for a moment, then returned to his activity, moving slightly slower. "Concentrate on the feel of the knife against the herbs. The feel of the knife against the table. The smell rising up from each plant. How each one looks uniform as you cut through them. The cool air around you."

Potter shivered.

"Sound. Feel. Smell. Sight," Snape murmered. "Sound. Feel. Smell. Sight."

The boy's chopping motions slowed even more, then returned to normal speed. Snape glanced up at him, and found the boy heavily concentrating on what he was doing, apparently thoroughly lost in the chopping of his herb.

"Tell me what you dreamed of," Snape said, using the same low voice.

Potter stopped chopping immediately and backed up two steps, the knife held protectively in front of him. "What?"

"Come back to the table, boy. Concentrate on what you're doing. I don't need you losing a finger or an eye," Snape snapped.

It took several moments, during which Snape was careful not to look up from his own work. But finally Potter returned to his chopping, and soon they fell into the same pattern as before.

"You will tell me what your nightmares are about," Snape said.

"Why, sir?" Potter said, his voice almost a whisper in sync with the repetitive chopping sounds. "So you can make fun of me some more? So you can tell everyone that precious Harry Potter has nightmares every night? That he cries or screams himself to sleep?"

Every night? Snape knew about the last two nights, of course, but Potter seemed to be admitting that the nightmares were not confined to the particularly tough situation the boy was currently in, had in fact been going on for years. Snape felt something unwelcome beginning to slide into his thoughts about this boy. For years, Snape had happily convinced himself that Harry Potter was nothing but James Potter, Jr., but James Potter would never have put up with years of nightmares, especially without telling everyone around him. Harry Potter had been keeping this all to himself; in fact, the boy seemed more concerned with other people knowing about the nightmares than in stopping them.

"I will not be telling anyone, idiot," Snape said.

"Then why do you want to know?" In contrast to Potter's earlier rude tone, he sounded resigned now, rather like he couldn't imagine anyone caring.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment. "Let us consider that it is less about what _I _want than what _you_ need."

"What?"

"You need to tell someone. I am available to tell. You lose nothing by talking to me about your nightmares. My opinion of you will not change—" the teenager snorted at this "—and it is clear that these dreams have been bothering you for some time."

"Maybe I've already told lots of people," Potter said as his knife movements became more erratic. The steady repetition of sound sped up for a moment. Snape waited, continuing his own chopping without more than a raised eyebrow. Then Potter took a deep breath, and slowed his own motions down to match Snape's once more. They worked in silence for another couple of minutes.

"Fine. I haven't told anyone. I can cast a silencing spell at Hogwarts, and no one on Privet Drive cares. I haven't told anybody. Are you happy? But maybe there's just nothing to tell. Everyone has nightmares. You should see what Neville was doing in his sleep until I showed him the silencing charm." Potter's words came out fast, like a verbal sigh. "And it doesn't matter. As long as I'm okay for the fight against Voldemort, who cares if I have a nightmare now and then?"

Snape debated with himself. He badly wanted to jump in here, to question the boy further on this line. Did the idiot really think that Dumbledore cared so little about him, as long as he was fit to fight? After seeing everything that Dumbledore had put into place to help the boy, Snape was annoyed with the ingratitude the teenager displayed.

Before he could open his mouth to challenge the boy, Potter continued talking.

"They're usually about my uncle. The nightmares."

Whump. It was what Snape had expected, but hearing Potter admit it aloud was another thing entirely. He reminded himself that he had purposely set up this situation, with Potter in his house, chopping herbs in his personal lab, specifically to get the boy to talk. Somehow, despite knowing that he'd engineered this moment, he felt enormously uncomfortable.

The feeling of discomfort grew when Potter didn't say anything else. Long minutes stretched between them, with only the feel of the familiar tasks keeping Snape from flying into an anxious rage. He wanted Potter to get it all out, to stop delaying the inevitable. He wanted Potter to stop talking immediately, to forget that it had ever been Snape's idea to help the boy through this. He wished Dumbledore were here instead.

But apparently the silence wasn't uncomfortable for just Snape, because very soon Potter started biting his lip and fidgeting with the few fingers that weren't involved in cutting.

"Sometimes it's about Cedric Diggory. Sometimes about my own parents. But usually it's my uncle."

Snape cleared his throat. "And what do these nightmares about your uncle consist of?"

Potter flinched on hearing Snape's voice, dropping his knife on the table. "Oh, just the usual, you know."

"No, I do not know. Elaborate."

"I don't really want—" Potter started, but Snape looked up at him and shut him up with a glance.

"Concentrate on the feeling of the knife in your hand, the sound of it chopping, the smell of the fresh herbs." Snape waited until Potter once again resumed his activity. "Now talk."

"I thought I had to look you in the eye when we talk," Potter murmered. "Sir."

Snape didn't bother replying. He couldn't tell if the boy was being beligerent or just idiotic.

Potter went on. "He terrifies me. That's why I dream about him, even more than I do about Voldemort. I'm always afraid. At night, if I wake him up, and then during the day…"

At this, the boy fell silent for so long that Snape ran out of ingredients and had to make a second trip to his storeroom off the lab. Potter was chopping so slowly that he was in no danger of needing more, and Snape could see that the boy's attention had wandered far from his task. The fear Potter spoke of was creeping over his face, as though his ridiculous uncle was reaching right into Snape's lab. It appeared that Potter had said as much as he was going to on his own; it was time for Snape to step in.

"When you dream," Snape prompted, "are the events of your dream imagined or real? I mean, are you remembering things, or is your imagination creating them?"

"Mostly remembering," Potter whispered.

"And they consist of your uncle hurting you?"

"Yes." Again, Potter's voice was nothing but a whisper.

"What kinds of things does he do to you in your nightmares, Potter?"

The boy's eyes closed. "It's just… pain… and fear. Please don't make me talk about it."

"Do you know why he hurt you, Potter?"

Potter nodded, but said nothing.

"Why did he hurt you?"

The boy shrugged.

Snape took a deep breath and put down his own knife, looking at the boy, who was carefully holding his knife to his side. "Back to work, Potter." He waited until the boy complied, taking note of Potter's trembling fingers. "Use words, Harry. Tell me why your uncle hurt you."

And finally, something in the boy burst free. "Because I'm a freak! Because he hates me! Because I'm useless and worthless and a waste of space, and everything that's ever gone wrong for him is because of me." With each word, Potter chopped at an ingredient until he had made a right mess of everything. "I'm the reason my parents died, and Cedric, and Sirius. I'm the reason Aunt Marge doesn't like to visit. I'm the reason he didn't get his promotion. I'm stupid, and I'm a wizard, and I can't do anything right. He's right to punish me! I deserve to be punished. It's all my fault."

The knife started flying faster and faster until Snape decided enough was enough. Reaching out his black-robed arm, he put a hand on Potter's hand, adding pressure until the boy released the knife. Even then, Snape didn't drop his hand, just kept the gentle pressure until he felt a little of the tension release from the teenager.

"Potter," he said, returning to his cutting. "None of that is true, no matter what your uncle told you."

"Then why?" Potter's voice was dull, exhausted from his release of emotion. "If it's not true."

"Because your uncle is a sadistic bastard. He enjoys causing pain. You were an easy target."

The words were unexpected, and Potter looked up at Snape in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Your uncle is a sadist. That's someone who enjoys hurting other people. If it hadn't been you, Potter, it would likely have been your obtuse cousin, or maybe even your aunt."

Emotions warred with each other in the boy's eyes as he squinted at Snape. "You mean… all this time…"

"It had nothing to do with you, I'm afraid. That's usually the case for abusers. The victim didn't do anything to cause the abuse, but the abuser will tell them they are responsible. It keeps the victim in a terrible cycle of trying to do better at something they cannot do at all. It was never your fault, any of it. He told you those things to absolve his own blame."

Potter took a deep breath. "It wasn't my fault," he repeated. "How do you know all this stuff? Sir?"

Snape sighed. "You are not exactly the first child in a difficult home situation that I've been in contact with, Mr. Potter. I am the Head of Slytherin House, after all." N_ot to mention my own family issues,_ he thought, but there was no need to tell the boy about that.

"Now," Snape continued. "Do I think that just because you know it's not your fault that you'll never have a nightmare again? Of course not. The fear is still there, even if you're able to correctly place the responsbility for it. That is why you are lucky to be here, where I have a good supply of Dreamless Sleep potion that will help you in the meantime. In fact, I'm going to offer you some shortly, as soon as you clean up the enormous mess you've made of my lab."

Potter groaned, and it was a familiar enough sound that Snape had to stop himself from grinning. They weren't done, not by a long shot, but perhaps this morning had been an important step.

**A/N: Just a few chapters left, and in particular, a conversation with Dumbledore coming up!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: Wow! I have reached more than 100 favorites and more than 200 followers, which is insane. Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying my little fiction. It is almost done at this point, only two more chapters (I think, unless I get some other brilliant idea and decide to keep it going for awhile). All characters belong to Ms. Rowling. Please enjoy this next installment.**

Chapter Nine –

Before Harry knew it, he had been at Prince Manor for an entire week. Seven full days of living with his potions professor, of doing homework and chores under the watchful eye of someone who never hurt him, who was, in fact, oddly _nice_. It wasn't always pleasant, of course. The nightly sessions with Snape were unbearable, really, but Harry had lived through unbearable before. Anyway, even those sessions became easier once Harry made the decision to tell Snape a little of what had been going on with the Dursleys.

Made the decision, ha. Harry knew he had no part of that decision. It was Snape who had forced him to talk, pulling all that mind trick with the potions ingredients, making Harry want to talk.

To his surprise, though, after the early morning chopping session, it had been easier to talk to Snape the next night, and the night after. He still was careful what he said, careful not to let Snape know the worst of the things Uncle Vernon had done. But the nightmares had lessened each night (helped, no doubt, by the sleeping potion Snape had offered him). And Harry was staring to get antsy.

He had had no contact with anyone but Snape for seven days now. He had no idea if Hermione or Ron knew where he was, or anyone else from the Order of the Phoenix. Snape didn't exactly keep him in the loop on things, and he was afraid to ask, afraid that Snape would be furious at him, or even worse, that news of his abuse had spread through the entire Order (something Harry felt desperate to avoid). He just kept his head down, did his homework and chores, and time was moving surprisingly fast.

It was the evening of the eighth day that Snape told him what Dumbledore had done to his relatives.

The evening had started the same as every other day, with Snape pulling Harry into his potions lab (where they'd taken to doing any serious talking). Harry set up his chopping station. As frustrated as he'd been with Snape that early morning, he had to admit that having something to focus on while he talked was tremendously helpful, and so Snape had been providing him with ingredients to cut every single night.

This night, Snape seemed distracted, more short than normal, and Harry wondered again what the man did all day while Harry was doing homework and chores. He hadn't seen Snape between breakfast and dinner, and now the potions professor was glaring at his own work like it had insulted his mother or something.

"Sir?" Harry said. "Do you want to skip tonight? I'm happy to go up to my room again or … something."

"Don't be an idiot, Potter."

Harry sighed. Too much to ask for a night off, especially when Snape was looking a little murderous.

"I have something to discuss with you, as it happens," Snape said. "I spoke with Professor Dumbledore earlier today. He will be coming here tomorrow."

Harry's knife slipped entirely off the cutting board, hitting the table underneath it with a resounding thud. "Dumbledore is coming here?" he repeated.

"He wishes to be kept in the loop as to your progress. And, as you will no doubt want to discuss it with him, it is time for you to be told what has happened to your aunt and uncle." Snape murmered something under his breath that Harry didn't catch.

"What do you mean, sir? What happened to my aunt and uncle?"

And Snape told him the whole story, of Snape and Dumbledore showing up at Privet Drive, of Snape reading Uncle Vernon's mind before Dumbledore shrunk them to the size of dolls and put them in a dollhouse. Of alerting the muggle authorities that Dudley would need to go into foster care.

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. In all the time that he'd been here at Snape's house, the man had given no indication that he'd been back to Privet Drive. No indication that he already knew about Harry's abuse because he'd seen it in Vernon's mind.

And now Vernon knew without a doubt that Harry had told someone—

He dropped his knife and tried to steady his breathing, but he could feel both pulse and breathing accelerating, could feel the panic rising in him. Deep in the distance, he could hear Vernon's voice, calling his name, calling him a freak. The voice was getting louder.

"Potter, calm down," said a voice much nearer to him, but Harry was too far gone to be able to listen. He felt his body cringing in on itself, like the injuries he'd suffered over the years were coming back to haunt him, even though they were all healed at this point. His stomach growled in memory of years of hunger. His back crawled, feeling the belt all over again.

He had to get out of here.

A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed his shoulder. A small part of Harry's brain registered that this was Snape's hand, probably trying to steady him, but the larger part, the part in control, saw only an adult male coming at him without warning, and Harry dodged around the hand and ran.

Out of the lab.

Down the hallway and out the front door.

And he kept on running, out into the deep dark of the forest surrounding Prince Manor. He barely noticed the scenery around him, so intent was he to get away.

Uncle Vernon was going to kill him. Literally kill him, not just mess him around a bit. And, if Uncle Vernon's threats could be trusted (which, in Harry's experience, they could), he was going to start by destroying Harry's stuff and hurting his friends.

He could still hear Vernon's voice, calling his name and getting closer, although the tone sounded wrong. And Uncle Vernon didn't usually call him Harry. Regardless, he had to get away. He sped up, dodging around trees and roots in his desperation to get away from that voice.

He didn't see the sudden decline until it was already too late. In the darkness, he ran full into an exposed tree root that tripped him, and instead of just falling flat on his face, he found himself tumbling down an embankment that got steeper and steeper until he wasn't running anymore so much as somersaulting, and then his fall was abruptly halted by a plunge into freezing cold water.

He gasped, pulled his head above water, discovered it was shallow enough to stand in but moving swiftly enough he couldn't keep his footing. Something, or rather several somethings, on his body _hurt_. He'd broken something in that damned fall, but he was too busy fighting against a current to figure out what.

He didn't know how long he struggled. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. Regardless, by the time he'd pulled himself out of the current towards the embankment, he was shaking with cold and pain, and he lacked the energy to even attempt pulling himself onto the bank, which was several feet above the water level. Instead, he half-stood, half-floated on the edge of the (river? stream? fast-moving lake?) and half-heartedly wished he were dead.

As he would be, once Uncle Vernon caught up to him.

Luckily, it was Snape who found him first. The water had cooled down the panic attack, and Harry recognized now that it was Snape's voice he had heard earlier, calling his name and chasing after him. And it was Snape now who waved a wand at Harry, levitating him out of the water and drying him off with a single muttered word.

"By the beard of Merlin, Potter, why did you run off like that?" Snape said.

Harry was busy shivering and couldn't answer.

"Let's get you back to the house," Snape said.

Harry nodded, took exactly one step, and collapsed in a heap. He bit his lip in an attempt to keep from crying out. Apparently, in his undignified fall down a hill, he'd damaged his left leg, which was now burning with pain. In addition, his right shoulder felt broken, his fingers on that arm numb and tingling with more than just the cold from the water.

"Potter," Snape said. "What has happened?"

"Um," Harry said. "I fell— and I think something's wrong with my leg."

He lay there on the ground, feeling vulnerable and angry, and terrified. Snape took a step towards him, and Harry shrank back, hating himself for doing it, but unable to shake the terror that had engulfed him since finding out what Dumbledore had done to his uncle.

"I am endeavoring to help you, idiot. Just hold still," Snape said.

Harry held still as Snape did some sort of wand work, and a piece of parchment popped into existence near the black-robed man. Snape read it, frowning, and then turned narrowed eyes on Potter.

"Only you, Harry Potter, could manage to injure yourself this badly while in an entirely safe environment. You have broken your left leg, dislocated your right shoulder, and have cuts and abrasions all down your left side. And don't think I've forgotten the little panic attack that sent you out here to begin with. Why is it that I tell you your uncle has been dealt with, and you respond by freaking out and running away?"

Harry didn't know what to say. He couldn't explain to Snape his fear that Vernon hadn't been dealt, only made more dangerous.

Fortunately, Snape appeared to be more frustrated than conversational, as he didn't wait for an actual answer from Harry. Instead, he conjured up some sort of stretcher-type cot, floated Harry onto it, and started moving them towards the house. Harry recognized the stretcher from years ago, when Ron Weasley had broken his leg and Snape had helped him from the Shrieking Shack back to Hogwarts.

Of course, Ron had been blissfully unconsious for the whole thing. Harry wished he were unconscious. That would be the best way to forget everything that was happening here, to forget the humiliation of being injured and rescued (again!) by Severus Snape, to forget that his uncle was going to be coming after him.

And Dumbledore. Coming tomorrow. Harry hadn't seen him since he'd been in Dumbledore's office, destroying his stuff and finding out about the prophecy that ensured Harry or Voldemort would be killed by the other.

It was too much to deal with. He closed his eyes.

"Potter," Snape said, interrupting his thoughts. Harry ignored him. "Potter, look at me," Snape said, his tone peevish. Harry complied with gritted teeth. The potions master was walking alongside the stretcher, looking taller than Harry had ever seen him, and grim.

"Sound, feel, smell, sight," Snape said.

Harry stared at him. He'd finally done it. He'd been so much trouble that he'd literally driven the man mad. The potions professor was talking nonsense, spouting off words without sentences or meaning.

Oh. Right. Harry remembered now that early morning chopping session, when Snape had shown him how to work through the panic by grounding himself in his senses. Harry took a deep breath. He could hear the sounds of Snape's robes swishing as the man walked, could hear the lonely hoot of an owl somewhere in the far-off distance. He could feel the scratchy fabric of the stretcher under him, could feel the pain from numerous abrasions on his skin, could smell the dank aroma of the river behind him and the fishy smell of dried river water coming from his own body. He couldn't see anything, because his eyes were closed again.

Another deep breath. Another round of pay attention only to the physical senses, and the panic begain to seep away.

And they were back at Prince Manor, and Snape was, humiliatingly, keeping a hand on Harry's good shoulder to keep him in place on the stretcher as they went up the stairs. Back in Harry's bedroom again, Snape levitated him onto his own bed (first waving his wand to make the bed that Harry had completely neglected this morning).

"Here we go again, Potter. Sit tight, I'll grab supplies," Snape said.

Laying in this bed that had begun to feel like his own, Harry felt the emotional roller coaster begin to disappate, leaving him exhausted. And embarrassed.

The embarrassment got worse. When Snape got back, he disappeared Harry's shirt and pants with one banishment spell, leaving Harry laying on his bed in only his boxers.

"Oy!" Harry said. "Give a guy some warning, would you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. I must see your injuries if I'm going to deal with them. Try to relax. I'll go as fast as I can."

In the haze of pain that followed, Harry took a moment to appreciate the irony of the situation. Once again, injured, half naked in a room with this man who had hated him for five years, dependent on the dreaded potions professor for help at his most vulnerable.

Harry couldn't tell if he was grateful or furious at the man. He knew he should be grateful, especially as Snape was being fairly gentle as he cleaned and magically healed the broken leg, the shoulder, and the various cuts and bruises. On some level, he was grateful. On an entirely more visceral level, though, he was angry. Why did Snape have to be the one to keep rescuing him?

"Drink these, Mr. Potter," Snape said, interrupting Harry's thoughts and pushing two vials towards him. Harry recognized both of them (what did it say about him that he recognized a pain potion and Skelegro on sight?), and drank them down.

"Let us talk for a moment now," Snape said. "I'm going to invoke rules one and two. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what in Merlin's name just happened."

"I ran off," Harry said sullenly, not looking at Snape.

"Oh do tell. Good thing your razor-sharp wit is around, because I never would have figured that part on my own. Explain, Potter."

Harry shook his head. Gratitude notwithstanding, he really disliked this man, who kept seeing him at his worst.

"For heaven's sake, Harry, I'm trying to help you. If we figure out what triggered your panic attack, you might be able to prevent them in the future."

That actually made sense. Taking a deep breath, Harry looked up at Snape's face, which was glowering down at him.

"I got, um, a little freaked out," Harry said.

"Once again, you have managed to point out the dreadfully obvious. Can you explain what terrifed you? I would have thought you'd be pleased to hear that your aunt and uncle have been dealt with."

Harry flinched.

Snape sighed. "Is that it? You don't think Dumbledore is able to deal with your uncle in a way that keeps the man from getting to you? Albus Dumbledore, who is the most powerful wizard in the entire country, so powerful that even the Dark Lord won't challenge him, but Vernon Dursley is stronger?"

Well, when he put it that way… Harry considered for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"If he could deal with Uncle Vernon, he would have years ago. He wouldn't have just left me there to be, well, um, abused, if he could have stopped it." At the look on Snape's face, Harry added, "Right?"

"Harry…" Snape said slowly, and Harry didn't want to know what was coming. He bit his upper lip, trying to keep the emotions that were threatening his eyes from leaking over.

"It doesn't matter. I'm tired. Would it be okay if I get some sleep, sir?" he said, rolling over before he waited for an answer.

Snape was silent so long that Harry snuck a look over his shoulder to see if the man was still there. He was, staring down at Harry with such a dark look on his face that Harry had to stop himself from shuddering.

"Professor Dumbledore will be here in the morning, Mr. Potter. You can talk with him then," Snape said finally.

_Great_, Harry thought, feeling the prickling behind his eyes again.

"Would you like a Dreamless Sleep potion?" Snape asked.

Harry shook his head, wanting Snape to just leave him alone. If he was going to cry, which it certainly felt like he might do, he definitely did not want to do it with Snape still in the room. He'd lost all other parts of his dignity today, but at least he hadn't cried like a baby yet.

A swoosh of movement, and then the door of his bedroom closed. Harry rolled back over to face the door. Despite wanting Snape to leave, he felt slightly bereft now that the man had done so. He was alone again. As always.

Then he had to chuckle to himself; Snape had left a small vial of Dreamless Sleep behind on his nightstand. It appeared the professor was beginning to know when Harry was sincere versus when he was blustering. Harry downed it in one gulp and rearranged his aching left leg. It was going to be a tough night.

**AN: Thank you! Please review.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Look! Two posts in one day. This story is winding to a close, and I've been so excited I kept writing. Also, I went back and fixed a small detail in chapter nine that a reviewer pointed out, so if you read it early and see a change now, that's what happened. **

**This is not intended to be Dumbledore bashing, but from Harry's perspective, Dumbledore royally screwed up, and I thought he ought to get chewed out. Characters belong to JKR, whose sandbox is a delight to play in.**

Chapter Ten –

Albus Dumbledore woke with a pit of nerves in his stomach. Today was the day he would be meeting with Harry Potter, a task he'd done several times in the past without feeling nervous about it.

But today was the first time he'd have to face the teenager since finding out exactly what kind of home he'd placed the boy in fourteen years ago.

He suspected that Harry could say nothing to him that he hadn't been telling himself for the last week. Even with all his other responsibilities as the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore had found plenty of time in the last few days to consider deeply and at length the deplorable mistake he had made.

Leaving a one year old with a sadistic psychopath.

Leaving a boy who was famous already in the wizarding world, who would be instrumental in the fight against Voldemort, in the hands of someone who regularly beat him.

For the first couple of days, Dumbledore had tried to justify himself. After all, he hadn't had a lot of options for the infant Harry Potter at the time. The boy's parents had been murdered, his godfather hauled off to Azkaban. The other people Dumbledore had considered had all been embroiled in a war, and Dumbledore knew the power of the blood wards that he could create with Lily's sister Petunia.

Minerva McGonagall had tried to warn him even back then. But Dumbledore had a few other things on his mind, and so he'd left. He'd left the boy on the Dursleys' doorstep and walked away.

Eventually, he'd realized there was no justification. Not for leaving the infant Harry on the doorstep then, and not for failing to check on him for the fourteen years since.

Of course, Dumbledore had known that Harry wasn't exactly treated kindly at the Durlseys. Each September when Harry returned to Hogwarts, the boy was subdued and too skinny for a few days before settling back into the wizarding world. But Harry had never given any other indication of the level of abuse he'd been living in, not back when he was eleven and new to Hogwarts, and not at the beginning of each term.

It was unforgiveable. Dumbledore knew this, and knew he would never forgive himself. But then, Dumbledore had a number of things for which he would never forgive himself.

But for most of his unforgiveable mistakes Dumbledore had made, he didn't have to come face to face with the primary victim. And now, today, that was exactly what he would be doing.

Snape had, of course, been keeping Dumbledore informed about the boy, what he'd told Snape, how he'd been behaving. Harry had been doing better than anyone had a right to expect, but he was filled with anger. So far, Snape had been able to direct that anger on himself and Harry's chores, but Dumbledore was under no illusions. Harry was primarily angry at him, and today he would feel the full brunt of that anger.

Rightly so.

It was going to be a tough day.

* * *

Severus Snape woke with a pit of nerves in his stomach.

After everything that had happened last night with that idiotic boy he'd taken charge of, Severus was glad he'd slept at all, really. Who knew the boy would react so badly to finding out that his abusive uncle had been stopped? It was almost like the Potter boy wanted his aunt and uncle left alone.

Or like he was afraid of his uncle, even after Dumbledore had taken care of the problem.

And seriously, if he had to treat any more wounds on that teenage boy, he was going to lose his mind. If he hadn't already. Maybe he had lost his mind. How else to explain the insane decision to allow Potter to stay here, in his private sanctuary, and disrupt his life so completely? How else to explain that, despite the boy's constantly frustrating behavior and bad attitude, Severus was beginning to feel something other than revulsion for the son of his enemy. It wasn't affection, necessarily, but it might have been approaching lack-of-revulsion. Glancing in the direction of fondness. Hinting vaguely at warmth. Tipping a hat across the room at, dare he say it, friendship.

Ridiculous.

Whatever this new feeling was, it had been strong enough that Snape had placed a ward on the boy's room last night to wake Snape instantly if the teenager had a nightmare. Fortunately, the brat seemed to have taken the Dreamless Sleep Snape left him. Maybe there was some hope for Potter's intellect after all.

Snape glanced at his watch. It was getting late; Dumbledore would be here in less than an hour, and Snape needed to feed the boy. If anything was worse than moody teenager, it was hungry moody teenager. He wasn't sure exactly how this meeting with Dumbledore was going to go, but he knew how nervous Potter was, and the boy's feelings were rubbing off on him.

Potter was silent at breakfast, and deathly pale. Snape had to ask the boy twice if he were in pain, which, of course, Potter denied.

"Mr. Potter," Snape said. "I'm invoking rule number two."

If anything, Potter lost even more color from his face. He ducked his head. "I'd rather not talk about it, sir," he said.

"Harry," Snape said, and waited for Potter to look him in the face. The boy's eyes were anguished. Apparently he was even more nervous about this visit from Dumbledore than Severus had realized. "He is not going to eat you for breakfast, you know."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what?"

"I, well… I'm worried about what _I_…" But the boy trailed off and didn't finish.

"About what you what?" Snape pressed, hoping Potter would just tell him what was wrong and get it out in the open. He suspected he knew exactly what Potter was worried about, that he would go off on Dumbledore, would tell him exactly how Potter felt about the whole situation, taking out all his anger on the headmaster. And Snape knew why Potter would be worried about doing that.

"Nothing, sir. I'm fine, sir."

There was little point in pushing Potter any further at the moment. Things would come up once Dumbledore arrived, he was sure. The boy would talk to Dumbledore, certainly more than he ever did to Snape, and then things would be fine. Dumbledore would fix it all.

Dumbledore did not fix it all, though.

Snape supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Given how sullen and anxious Potter was this morning, he should have realized the boy wasn't going to immediately tell Dumbledore all his troubles the moment the headmaster arrived by Floo. He should have been prepared for how very _awkward_ it all felt, that first meeting, with Potter steadfastly refusing to talk or meet anyone's eyes, and Dumbledore looking anguished and almost as pale as his own beard.

"Perhaps I should leave," Snape murmered after the silence began to grow uncomfortable.

"Yes," Dumbledore said, but at the same time, Potter said, "Please no," giving Snape a pleading look that sent sympathy rumbling down Snape's spine.

"You would prefer Professor Snape to stay?" Dumbledore said, somehow keeping the astonishment that Snape was feeling out of his voice.

"Yes, sir," Potter muttered.

"Very well. Shall we sit?" Dumbledore gestured Potter to one of the chairs circling the chess table. The headmaster took the other, and Snape sat down behind his own desk, wishing mightily that he were in his lab right now, or really, anywhere but here.

"How are you doing, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

Potter shrugged. "I'm fine, sir."

"Harry," Dumbledore said in admonishment. "Please do not bother with pretences for me. I am fully aware that you are not fine. Professor Snape has kept me well-informed of what has happened here, including last night's events and the things you've shared with him about your childhood."

Potter threw a glare over at Snape, who smirked at him. Did the boy really think he wasn't going to tell Dumbledore all the terrible things Dursley had done?

"I'm okay now, sir. Snape fixed me up," Potter said.

Silence descended. Awkwardly. Snape fiddled with the papers on his desk, wishing he could break in, wishing he could leave.

"Is there anything you wish to say to me?" Dumbledore asked finally.

Potter shrugged again. "Not really, sir. Thanks for dropping by."

"Harry. You know why I'm here. I must convey to you the deepest apology a man can offer another. I did not know, and did not find out, exactly what was happening to you, and—"

Potter stood up. "Thanks for coming sir, but I need to get started on my homework."

"_Harry_," Dumbledore said, his voice desperate. "Stay. Talk to me. I know you must have things you want to say. There is more that I wish to say to you. We cannot leave this here."

Snape could see Potter struggling internally, could see the boy's fists clenching and unclenching. Shadows passed over Potter's face, leaving his eyes cold and red-rimmed.

"Potter," Snape said, deciding to intervene. Someone had to talk some sense into the dunderhead before he ruined Dumbledore. "Might I have a word for a moment?"

Snape kept his eyes on Potter, but in his peripheral vision, he saw Dumbledore visibly relax, as though the man had been hoping for Snape's intercession. Odd, to see his mentor so shaken in any circumstances.

Potter, however, straightened his back, his face growing even more sullen, if that were possible. But the boy nodded and followed Snape into the hallway. Snape had only a few seconds to decide what to say that would help.

This wasn't going well at all.

* * *

Harry Potter followed Snape with a pit of nerves in his stomach. His fingers were so fidgety he had to hold his fingers together to keep them from jumping around all over. He could feel Dumbledore's keen eyes on his back.

He hadn't been prepared for how angry he would feel when he saw the aged headmaster. After all, Harry had practically worshipped Dumbledore for years, even a few weeks ago when Dumbledore admitted the prophecy to Harry. He was a good man, Harry knew.

It was like the anger was coming from a deeper part of Harry, one that had nothing to do with the wizarding world and everything to do with the shattered pieces of his childhood. He had admitted small bits and pieces to Snape over the last week, but never the worst of it, and now Dumbledore was here, demanding that Harry be alright, but refusing to accept his lie about being so.

"What is going on with you, Potter?" Snape said, turning on him once the door to the study was closed behind them. "Professor Dumbledore is trying to apologize, and you're treating him like …"

"Like what, sir?" Harry said, his voice thrumming with anger. "Like someone who let me be abused for years and years and then goes after my relatives without asking me what I wanted?"

Snape sighed. "Why are you telling me this? You need to be telling him."

Harry shuddered. "I know. That's why I don't want to talk to him. I don't want to say this stuff. He … he'll look at me different, if he knows the truth about what I am. He's not like—" Harry stopped himself abruptly. To his horror, he had been about to say that Dumbledore wasn't like Snape, and that kind of ridiculous affectionate codwsallop could not be said aloud. Snape must never know that Harry had only opened up to him because of Snape's promise not to think any differently of him.

"He already knows about the abuse, Harry," Snape said, pinching his upper nose in exasperation.

"I know," Harry said.

"Then what are you worried about him finding out? That you're angry? Maybe he should find that out, Potter. Whatever is bothering you about the headmaster needs to come out, so you can move past it."

"I—"

"Professor Dumbledore is not going to think less of you because you are having an entirely human response to a terrible situation, Harry," Snape said, his voice more gentle than Harry had ever heard it.

"I have to be strong," Harry whispered. All the weight of the wizarding world that had been resting on Harry's shoulders for the last five years crushed against him, along with the voice of his Uncle Vernon, reminding Harry what would happen if he ever told anyone what was happening at home.

"Not. Here."

Harry pushed aside the swell of emotions that threatened to overtake him._ Consider your options._ Option one, he screw on his Gryffindor courage, head back into Snape's study, and have a difficult conversation with the first man Harry had ever respected. Option two, he chicken out like a little girl and go running up the stairs to hide in his bedroom (where he would probably face the wrath of Snape, who wasn't going to take it well).

He took a deep breath.

Then dodged around Snape to run upstairs. Option two definitely seemed like the better option, as it would allow Dumbledore to keep respecting him.

"Mr. Potter!" Snape yelled up the stairs after him, but Harry was already closing the door in his bedroom.

He could hear, through the floor, the faint muffled sound of voices. The two grown wizards were talking about him. Great. Probably talking about what a little pansy he was. Maybe rethinking the entire strategy of how to kill Voldemort, since apparently the Boy Saviour was not going to be a brave enough option. Maybe Neville Longbottom could still be recruited.

Harry could feel his heartrate begin to rise, and he started pacing across the floor. Back and forth, back and forth. Keep the panic away. Sound, feel, smell, sight. He could hear the sound of voices below him, but also a dripping coming from the other room, probably from his shower. He could feel the carpet beneath his feet…

Oh who was he kidding? He wasn't going to hide up here. No matter how badly he wanted to. If only there was a way to help him say what he was thinking instead of just clamming up.

And the answer came to him in a flash of inspiration that had him groaning.

He headed back downstairs slowly, knocking so lightly on the study door that it took two sets of knocks before Snape pulled it open.

"Potter," the man said, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Do you have any more of that enhanced calming draught?" Harry blurted out. "The one that made me want to talk more?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "As you might recall, Potter, you became … hysterical and violent … the last time. I have no wish to have a repeat performance."

Harry ran his hand through his hair. Somehow, he had to make Snape see, but he didn't know how to explain it. "Please, sir."

"Use words, Mr. Potter."

"I— Part of me wants … to be able to talk to Professor Dumbledore, to tell him the truth, and I'm getting in my own way."

Snape considered him for a long moment, then nodded.

"Very well. I have a vial in my study. Come in and sit down."

To Harry's surprise, Dumbledore was still in the seat by the chess set, looking miserable but his eyes questioning Harry. Taking a deep breath, Harry cross the room and sat next to him.

"I'm sorry for leaving, sir," he said.

"It is quite understandable, young Harry."

Snape appeared next to him. "Here, Potter," he said, holding a vial of what Harry was beginning to recongize was Calming Draught.

"Excellent idea, Severus. One for me as well?" Dumbledore said.

Harry and Snape exchanged probably the first grinning, conspiratorial look that had ever occurred between them. "Not this one, headmaster," Snape said, and Harry had to duck his head down to erase his smile.

They waited a moment in silence while Snape rummaged up what Harry assumed was a regular Calming Draught. Then Snape stood awkwardly outside the rugged area by the chess set.

"If that's all, I will go see to lunch," he said, like a servant waiting to be dismissed.

"Harry?" Dumbledore asked. "Would you like Professor Snape to stay?"

Harry nodded, then shook his head. In a manner that was becoming annoyingly familiar, Snape's fingers came down and lifted Harry's head until their eyes met.

"You can do this. Just remember, resist the urge to punch." And then the potions professor was gone, out the door, and Harry was left alone with Dumbledore.

But he could feel the potion was already kicking in. His emotions were all over the place, waiting for him to give voice to what he was feeling, and all inhibition was gone. Like a swimmer rolling with an ocean tide, he gave in to the swell.

"You left me there as a baby," he said.

Dumbledore winced. "Harry, I—"

"Please, sir, don't talk for a moment. I want to get it all out, and I'm not going to be able to if you interrupt me." A small part of Harry couldn't believe he was talking so rudely to his respected headmaster, but that part was quickly overruled by the drive to _get all this anger out and give it to someone else_.

"You left me there as a baby. Maybe you didn't know what my uncle was. Did you know? No, don't answer that. I don't want to know if you knew or not. If you did know, that makes you as bad as he is. If you didn't know, it means you weren't paying attention."

Harry found he couldn't stay seated anymore, and got to his feet to pace. "I was … am… a chess piece, someone to move around a board when you needed me to defeat Voldemort, but then I'm supposed to return to my little corner and be quiet and good until you need me next. And in the meantime, my uncle is beating me, starving me, breaking bones and throwing me around. Do you know he burned my hand in a fireplace when I was just a kid? That's right. He was mad about something, I don't even remember what, and he held my hand in the fire until I was screaming and my skin was melting off, and then instead of taking me to the hospital, he locked me in my cupboard with almost no food for three days. I never was entirely sure how my skin all grew back the next day." He looked down at his hand, the same one covered in scars from Umbridge's quill. This was the story he'd never told Snape, the worst moment of his life.

"And I was so angry with him, but I should have been angry with you!" Harry said, finding that his voice was rising into a yell. "Because you should have known! You should have gotten me out! You sent Snape, who hates me, but you never came yourself. Why didn't you know? Why didn't you come for me?" To his horror, tears welled up and began to overflow his face, and he couldn't look at Dumbledore anymore.

"I know _famous Harry Potter_ matters to you, but did I, Harry, ever matter?" he said, the last words breaking in a sob. He couldn't keep on his feet anymore, and sank to the floor right where he stood, covering his eyes with his left arm. It seemed the words had run out, and he had nothing left but sobs.

An arm came out of nowhere and settled on his shoulders, a hand squeezing his left shoulder, and Harry didn't care anymore about the fact that he was almost sixteen, that he was a brave Gryffindor. Inside, he felt like a child again, and he turned towards the hand and buried his face in Dumbledore's shoulder, sobbing like he never had before. Dumbledore's other arm swung around him until he was encased in a strong hug, a hug that was tight enough to keep him from flying apart at the seams.

"Oh my boy," Dumbledore said when the worst of the sobbing had passed and Harry was beginning to feel embarrassed about the amount of snot and tears he'd leaked onto Hogwarts's headmaster. "I have utterly failed you."

"No," Harry whispered into his shoulder. "You did send Snape."

Dumbledore actually laughed. "Well, fifteen years too late, but you're right. I sent a professor you disliked, specifically to keep your expectations low."

"It worked. I had low expectations," Harry said with a grin, then hiccuped.

"Of course you did. Do. Given everything you've grown up with, it's a miracle you're as well adjusted as you, Harry. You have been remarkably self-sufficient and resilient in this situation. That doesn't excuse me from the enormous amount of blame that lies on my shoulders. You are right to be angry with me. I am angry with myself."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said, feeling remorseful now for his blowup and subsequent sob session. He leaned away from the headmaster, wiping at his face with the back of his hands (and regretting it instantly, as it appeared that the moisture on his face was not just tears).

"Do not be sorry, Harry. Every word that you said is true, and something I have been telling myself. I have failed you. But I will fail you no more." The twinkle was back in Dumbledore's eyes as he helped Harry to his feet, and the two of them sank into the chairs once more. Amazing how different it felt now, Harry thought, than it did an hour ago. Even just that five minutes of complete honesty, of being able to tell an adult the truth about something important, seemed to have lifted much of the weight off his shoulders.

Harry barely noticed that he was flexing his left hand, rubbing his right fingers over the hand over and over again.

"We will have time to talk about the past, whatever parts of it you want to tell me. For now, let us return to the present, and from thence, the future," Dumbledore said. "Have you been safe and happy here at Prince Manor?"

Harry considered. "I think so. It's pretty different from anywhere else I've been, but I have a good routine, and Snape has been … well, not awful." Surprisingly, Harry added silently, and Dumbledore grinned, apparently having guessed the silent word as well.

"Professor Snape, Harry. Okay, so for the meantime, let us keep the status quo. I would say that later this summer, the Weasleys will expect you to join them at the Burrow, but perhaps we'll give you a few more weeks here first. As for the future—"

"I'd really like to not go back to Privet Drive," Harry said, interrupting him. "I mean, I will if you think I need to, but …"

"Harry, my boy, you will never be returning there. Furthermore, I'm not sure your aunt and uncle will be remaining there much longer themselves. Your aunt has been feeling quite remorseful about the whole situation and is almost back to her regular size, but I'm afraid your uncle, um, has not made such good progress."

Harry could have guessed that. Remorse was not exactly in the man's vocabulary.

"Your cousin is still in the care of foster parents, and it is unclear when or if the three of them shall be returning as a single family unit. As you had only one year left until you turn seventeen anyway, we will be making alternate arrangements. And Harry, I will never again be making the mistake of assuming you are fine. I will be personally checking on you at least once a week during the summer from now on."

"That sounds great, sir," Harry said.

"One more question, and then I'll let you go. I know Professor Snape has been helping you deal with the mental and emotional ramifications of your abuse. I must ask you, though, how are you doing physically?"

"I don't understand, sir," Harry said.

"All those years of beatings must have taken a toll, Harry. It would ease my mind if you were to spend some time with a healer, getting a full diagnostic and any necesssary medical treatment."

"But Snape has been healing me," Harry protested.

"I know, and I'm sure he's done a fine job, but he is not a trained healer. Don't worry, Harry, it's just to put my own mind at rest."

Right. But Harry knew if they did a full diagnostic, they would find out every injury he'd ever had, and he knew how he felt about that. Horrified. Humiliated. _Come on, Harry, it's not like they don't already know how bad it was_.

"Yes, sir," he said reluctantly.

"Thank you, Harry. It is time for me to go, and time for you to go explore whatever Professor Snape is making that smells so good. But I will see you again in a week's time, if not sooner. And Harry," Dumbledore's eyes lost their twinkle and he looked serious again. "Please, let me once again apologize."

"It's okay, professor," Harry said.

Dumbledore sighed. "You are more forgiving than most other men would be, Harry Potter. Let me say one more thing, and I want you to listen carefully. You matter, Harry, as a person, as a wizard, as the brave man standing before me, and as the child you once were. You have always mattered; it was not any failing on your part that led to your challenges. You matter."

And with that, Dumbledore left via Floo, leaving Harry to take several deep breaths in the chair in Snape's study. He couldn't believe he had done that, and that Dumbledore had taken it so well. He couldn't believe he was never going back to the Dursleys. He rubbed his left hand once more, then dropped it.

**AN: Whew! This chapter felt emotional to write. In case you are at all interested, I will tell you that the moment where Harry asks Snape for more of the emotion-uninhibiting potion is actually where the germ for this story came from. Everything else has been leading to that point. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: This is it, the last chapter. It's really an epilogue of sorts, so much shorter than the regular chapters. I'm so glad to have you join me on this little fiction. All characters belong to JK Rowling.**

Chapter Eleven –

The aftermath of Harry's wrath was quiet.

Three weeks after Harry had taken out his anger on Dumbledore, Harry found himself spending more and more time in Snape's lab, working quietly side by side with the man he'd hated for five years on potion after potion. Harry found he loved the work, loved the feel of the ingredients under his fingers, loved the sound of thudding knives against the cutting boards, loved the satisfaction of seeing the potions turn out exactly the way they were supposed to.

Not that all his potions turned out correctly. For the first week or two, Harry's potion making was as dismal here as at Hogwarts. But, under the watchful (and often insulting) eye of his potions professor, Harry starting churning out potions that were passable, then acceptable, then downright okay.

When he wasn't brewing, he was finishing up homework, doing chores around the house, and wandering the woods around Prince Manor. It was weird getting used to living somewhere where no one hated him or yelled at him (although Snape slipped back into his disdain of Harry everytime Harry disappointed him, which was often, Harry didn't take him as seriously as he'd used to). It was weird to not have to heal himself several times a week from the injuries he received from his family.

And it was weird how quiet it was.

Snape did not make a lot of extraneous noise, and Harry didn't feel a strong need to talk just to hear himself talk.

Honestly, he was frustrated with how much anger and hurt he still felt. For some reason, he'd thought once he had a chance to get things out with Dumbledore, he would feel better, like yelling at his headmaster would make all the pain of years of broken childhood go away. But instead, the pain and hurt was still there. Even after visiting with Dumbledore on two more visits (one of them at length as the two of them walked the forest around Prince Manor), he wasn't necessarily feeling better.

This was on his mind when he sat down to breakfast with Snape just a few weeks before school was about to start. Snape was as quiet as usual, but the man sighed deeply after Harry looked up at him several times without speaking.

"Out with it, Potter," he said.

"What, sir?"

"You clearly want to talk about something. Just spit it out."

Harry bit his lip. "We could wait until tonight, during our regular talking time."

"It's going to bug you all day, so you might as well tell me now."

"Um," Harry said, not sure how to start.

"Is this about your school books? I expect your book list and school letter will arrive today or tomorrow."

"No."

"Your friends? You're welcome to see them again today, if you're feeling a need to companionship closer to your own age."

"That's not it. I did see Ron just a couple days ago."

"Then what is it, Potter?"

Harry took a deep breath. He had to get this out, and by now, he trusted Snape enough to know that the man would be honest (if not especially sympathetic) with him.

"Is this … empty feeling going to go away?"

Snape looked up from his breakfast, piercing Harry with one of his long stares. "Explain."

"I thought, well, um, that once I got away from Uncle Vernon, and … then talking to Professor Dumbledore… Well, I thought I'd start feeling better. Start feeling … normal."

"Normal," Snape repeated.

"Like Ron and Hermione. They never have this gnawing feeling in their gut. They don't have pain in their back—"

"Pain?" Snape said quickly. "Are you in pain, Potter?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not real pain, sir. It's, um, kind of like imaginary pain."

Snape nodded.

"And I'm just, well, kind of empty."

"Listen, Harry," Snape said. "You spent ten years of your life, and then many more months during summers, being abused by someone who had been entrusted with your life. All that anger and pain isn't going to go away over night, no matter who you talk to or what happens. It's part of why you are here, and not at your friend's house."

"So this is just never going to go away?" Harry said in despair. "I'll always feel like this?"

"The memories are never going to go away, and the difficulty trusting adults will probably always be there. But the pain will go away, the further you get from it and the more you choose to care for other people."

"How do you know all this, anyway, sir?" Harry asked.

Snape sighed and looked away from Harry. "That is a story for some other time, Potter. In the meantime, continue doing what you're doing, and don't give up."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, before Snape put down his fork again. "It might help, Mr. Potter, if you let someone else in. Perhaps talked to your friends about what has happened to you."

"No way," Harry said.

"Why not?"

"I just … I'd rather not. They'll …"

"They'll what? You've entrusted them with your life multiple times. Now you think they're going to run away from you if you entrust them with your secrets?"

"I don't know—"

"Don't be an idiot, Potter. Trust your friends."

"I'd rather just talk to you, sir." A second after saying this, Harry had to chuckle. Who would have thought he'd ever reach a point where his most trusted confidante would be Severus Snape? And was Snape … turning red?

"Go do your homework," Snape snapped. "Leave me alone for awhile; I've got some particularly intricate potions to brew today."

"Okay, sir. I'll be outside after homework."

The two of them separated amicably, and Harry went up to his room.

He knew Snape was right. He needed to tell Hermoine and Ron, if for no other reason than to explain why he was at Prince Manor. So far, on the few occasions when he'd been able to spend time with Ron and Hermione, he'd put off their questions by making it seem like it was top secret Order of the Phoenix business. He didn't like lying to them, but he also didn't want to see the pity in their faces when he told them the truth.

Maybe while they were back at Hogwarts, when there was much more to distract them from his dark secrets.

In the meantime, Harry was, dare he say it, in a state that was rapidly approaching happiness. Usually he only found happiness at Hogwarts, which felt more like home than his actual home on Privet Drive ever had. But this quiet summer with Snape felt almost like a reprieve. He knew he would be heading back into a war zone in only a couple weeks, when Snape had planned for Harry to move to the Burrow. And then, the war with Voldemort, of course, in which Harry knew he was an integral part.

So for now, he would enjoy the quiet. He would enjoy the peace, the lack of anyone trying to kill him.

And his unexpected friendship with Severus Snape.

**AN: And that's it! Please review, if you feel so inclined. I have another fic in mind that features Hermione Granger (another hurt/comfort fic, because I love them), if you want to join me for that one as well. Happy days, everyone, and thank you !**


End file.
